Delayed Satisfaction
by Brontesis
Summary: Casey's all grown up and living on her own. Derek comes to hers for dinner but she nearly faints when she's introduced to the woman he's brought with him! The story of a kid, a crime, a marriage and a long romance. Dasey, Futurefic. Read and Review!
1. Dinner, August 2020

_I don't own LWD…_

**Chapter One - Dinner, August 2020**

The night he moved to Montreal, I lay on top of my bed, on top of the covers, fully dressed from dusk till dawn. I didn't close my eyes. I didn't cry. I _couldn't_ cry.

There I was, thirty-one years old and struggling to think of reasons why I should get up in the morning. Of course, if you count my fabulous lecturing job in the department of English at McGill – yes, I'd been living in Montreal for the past ten years – or my wonderful supportive mother and sister, who always wrote me and gave me all the news, especially if it concerned me; and my lovely old apartment, just off glittering Saint Denis at dignified Sherbrooke, with a tree in the back yard and just the right amount of light in winter; or my book about new Canadian songwriters, which was about to be released. Well, I had plenty to be thankful for.

But there I was, as they say, quite beyond tears.

For, instead of coming to dinner at mine alone, as I thought he would after he rang to say he was moving in that evening and did I want to meet for dinner? blah, blah – oh, we'd met every so often over the past few years and there'd been sparks, albeit invisible ones – Derek went and brought a wife with him.

Yes. You read me right. A real flesh and blood wife, down to her tailored suit, silky blond curls and English accent. An Equine Arranger she said she was. Or something combining sports, management and horses; I was too dazed to take it in.

On the telephone I'd tuned him out, after the first few sentences, partly because my heart was racing at such a phenomenal pace that I almost dropped the handset; (you're thinking why would the mere voice of my stubborn stepbrother, with whom I traditionally fought and whom I had not seen for months do _that_ to me, and of course, I'm going to tell you; but you'll have to wait).

So I got through the evening somehow, made casual chitchat about horses, her daddy's farm (somewhere in rural Oxfordshire, where I never ever want to go), her ex-boyfriend (go figure!) and the mushroom soufflé – thank goodness I'm a better hostess now than I was all those years ago when my father came to dinner at George's or else her pink woollen suit might not have escaped unscathed.

All through the wine, Derek was staring at me as if his gaze could melt bones. Just staring and staring in a way that I would have thought so utterly rude if I'd been his new bride. But then, she didn't seem to mind at all, or even to notice, as his dark eyes followed me, and as my hands shook whenever I poured the wine. Quite incredible! He'd gone and married someone with just the right thickness of skin.

But me – yes, always back to me again – I didn't dare look at him. There he sat, so languid and handsome on my couch, with his thick hair now threaded with an occasional grey streak, and his brown sweatered arm across the back, as if it were curled around an invisible ghost. If this was a game then he had gone and won it, hands down. No sangfroid on earth, no stiff upper lip, no lady-like grace was going to get me through more than one such dinner. And then, when the door closed behind them – after her horsy squeals of delight at the pudding I packed for them to take home to their new flat (because, face it, I wasn't about to have them in my home one infinitesimal moment longer than was absolutely necessary), and after his lips had brushed mine in eerie mimicry of our real selves – it was only then that I allowed myself to sink down onto the floor and cry. And I'd been feeling the tears all evening, scratching at the back of my throat, pinching the corners of my eyes, urging me to behave like a fool. So it was odd when they didn't come. When, instead, nothing came. No thoughts, no tears, no energy, no will: just an animal urge never to leave my hole again.

Painful things had happened to me before. Oh yes, and for sure I will be telling you about some of them. But the night Derek moved to Montreal, and came to see me with his fresh new wife in tow, that beat every one of them. And if you think this makes my character shallow – well then, I'm just going to have to explain myself, and my inability to get up off the bed until dawn exposed my cowardice and misery for all to view. Aren't I? Or perhaps you're one of those brusque types, who just doesn't want to know...

**If you wish Casey (now Dr. McDonald) to tell you the rest of her story, send me a message... reviewers, readers. And for the record, I missed you.**


	2. Creaking Stair Thrills

**I do not own LWD. Dear reviewers, your comments were much appreciated. People who don't review but like the story– thank you guys too.**

**Chapter 2 - Creaking Stair Thrills**

I think you know who I am, but perhaps I should tell you anyway, because people these days tend to have short memories and full schedules. They watch so many films, read so many junk magazines, catch the tail-end of so many pieces of news. Nothing is ever particularly serious or lasting, unless it relates directly to them - like those of us who don't really understand the global economic downturn until someone tells us we no longer own our house.

I don't mean this as a direct insult to you; I'm just not myself at the moment, so if you think this dry-eyed, lack-lustre creature curled up on top of the quilt is me, Casey McDonald, then you'd be mistaken. And of course, if anyone is mistaken, the real Casey usually makes a point of telling them so.

I used to do that to Derek. Repeatedly, in fact. Especially in the days before we stopped pretending we detested each other. Ah! But I'm totally getting ahead of myself. In order for you to make sense of my story, you need to know about the awful lengths to which we used to drive each other and, indeed, everyone around us.

There is no escaping the fact that Derek and I were like – I was planning to say chalk and cheese but that's just too clichéd. If someone had created us, then the audience would have laughed their heads off, because most of the time we were such an unlikely and troublesome pair. Sardonic. Self-centred. Competitive. Insecure. Hooked on the thrill of accusations and retribution – often forgetting our souls and our surroundings, or the consequences. So, yes, _Tom and Jerry_ might be more appropriate. Or Montagues and Capulets more dramatic. And in the end, although we did not die or kill each other, perhaps other doomed romantic pairings do spring to mind.

Looking back on us then, I feel we were unpleasant children setting everyone a bad example. You know what I'm talking about! The food fights; the shampoo throwing; the insults, tantrums and sulks. The occasions on which we hurt not just the possessions but, far worse, the feelings of others in our mad dash to remain at the centre of each other's universe.

If things turned out all right in the end on any particular occasion, nothing got burnt or broken – well that was pure luck, usually. And don't tell me that _the past is the past_ – because if that were true then why would I be lying here twelve years later in this state of unstoppable turmoil over a visit from Derek and his preppy English wife? Because the past is never the past, I tell you. Never. And the present is all about unravelling or forgetting what happened and what might have been.

--

After they left, and I'd managed to crawl onto my bed, I just lay there. I thought I'd heard her say 'Isn't she just a _spiffing creature_!' to Derek as I bolted the door. But my state of stunned paranoia might have meant I was imagining things.

I had nothing important to get up for in the morning. All my students were still on summer break; even my colleagues had taken time off to spend with their families or friends or resident goldfish. I'd been alone all week in the beautiful old departmental room in the English and Literatures building, working on a new book, and I had no inclination to work any harder. And anyway, as I told you, sleep denied me that night. So I allowed thoughts to drift around my mind – especially thoughts about my stepbrother, and the times we'd spent together over the years: salty thoughts that made me thirst for something water was never going to quench; fiery thoughts that burnt a hole in my head.

Time used to feel so infinite (sometimes frustratingly so) and elastic (some moments seemed to last for hours or days passed in a blink) in that house, with him, with the diverting cocoon of our family's love holding us in place; but it was just a deceptive trick of the mind. Irrevocably things moved on.

A chance meeting on the stairs at midnight: summer of our graduation year, 2008. It had lasted – well maybe less than three minutes. But _phew_. Just flicking over the memory with attempted casualness (like an actress dusting her face with powder one last time after the make-up artist has gone) makes my cheeks burn, my heart stammer. With rage, you're thinking? With frustration? Because yes, that's what I said at the time, at least to myself.

I'd been studying late into the night for one of my very last tests. I was almost eighteen, and very sure of my priorities. Derek had turned eighteen already and was equally sure of his. Which was why, although we were both taking the test the following morning, he had been sitting up watching reruns on television – although I didn't know this at the time, or I wouldn't have exited my room and padded down to the kitchen in my shorts and vest with my hair all dishevelled and pen marks at the corners of my mouth.

Silvery shafts of moonlight from the bathroom window illuminated the top of the staircase. But the lower half was in total darkness. I was going down, trying not to make any noise. Two of our stairs creaked so loud that mom was always on at George to get someone in to fix them. I didn't want to disturb anyone. Derek was coming up the stairs, strangely perhaps for him, trying to be quiet in an effort (he told me later) not to wake mad Casey before her BIG EXAM and cause BIG TROUBLE. Stepping to the side at the exact same moment, in an effort to avoid the noisiest stair, we met, midway down. I, of course, almost lost my balance and fell over. I almost screamed. But the soft thunk of my body against his and his against the wall, and the fact that he caught my wrists – well, that kind of stabilised me and made all the air leave my body at the same time; so there was nothing left to scream with.

'Studying hasn't improved your balance, has it, Case?'

'I didn't know you were up. I need to get a drink.' Instantly I could feel every part of my body as if some invisible force was heating my blood from the inside. Derek-electric, that's what I'd become. I steadied myself with a hand on his arm.

'Now I'm gonna' need t' take a bath.' He indicated that I had touched him, but still made no move to push me away (if this were a normal day, or anyone was watching, I would have been at the bottom of the stairs in an ungainly heap by this point). His skin was cool against my palm.

'What were you doing down there so late, right before the exam?'

'Just catching up with _The Daily Show_.'

'What's that?'

'Oh, Casey the magnificent intellectual doesn't know what that is? I won't tell you then.' He was whispering and laughing at the same time.

'If you watch it, I'm sure it's not worth watching!' I was whispering too. I didn't have to try not to laugh. Nothing about my feelings was remotely amusing. For some unknown reason, instead of feeling annoyed or irritable, I was excited and nervous.

There was plenty of room on the stairs and my eyes had adjusted to the darkness. I could see him clearly, in the glow from something downstairs, his eyes shining even more than normal. Incredibly attractive was an understatement, when applied to him; but then I'd have taped my mouth shut before I let him know that. He was still holding one of my wrists and obviously that meant he could feel my absurdly panicked pulse. Duh.

Then he brought one arm up and around me so I didn't move away (I really, really wasn't intending to move away from him then, but I guess he didn't know me so well). He was leaning against the wall. I was resting against him so that my cheek was touching his chest (now I knew what that hammering was). He whispered something into the top of my head, and I murmured 'what?' so he couldn't hear me. And it sure felt like there was something powerful holding us there together like that.

And that was it. No kissing; and not much talking really. It was as if, leaning against each other on the staircase in the silvery dark, I at least could touch beneath the shirt and skin, to the bones beneath: and there all I felt was the perfection of someone who was my equal, not my enemy. And since I'd never really expected my soul – let alone my body – to be this at ease with Derek, I was, for once in my life, quite speechless.

And then, lightly, tenderly, Derek detached us from each other, saying in a voice closer to shaky than I'd heard in a long time, 'Ew, Casey, stop drooling all over my shirt and get a hold of yourself. You've got a test tomorrow!' and darting up the stairs like the cocky super villain he always tried to be.

I would have stood on those stairs all night, in his arms; and most probably would have flunked my test, had he not gone then, at that precise instant.

And now, over a decade later, I would cry, if I could, with longing just for this one memory. But my body refuses. My eyes are like sandpaper.

Then, just as exhaustion looms over a very bright warm Montreal morning, another memory – still sweeter and more delicious than that last – sweeps in from the following summer, threatening to overwhelm me completely. Picture it: a misjudged and typically McDonald-Venturi camping trip, a caravan too small to hold more than five, a fight which left me and Derek locked out and then alone in a tent together for a single night… This is really something that I try reasonably hard not to think about most of the time, but I'm not doing a very good job at the moment. And then my doorbell rings.

My doorbell? _Who on earth?_ It's only eight in the morning. On a Thursday, towards the end of vacation time. Why would anyone…? I drag myself wearily up off the bed and go to answer it, still wearing last night's jeans and an oddly uncrumpled shirt.

There's Derek's wife, whom I'd just spent the whole night telling myself I'd never ever have to see again.

She breezes into my hallway, and then into my living room, drops her tiny red purse onto my couch and says in her terrifyingly crisp manner, 'Time to get freshened up, Casey. Derek told me if I needed a girlfriend, you'd be the one! And he said you'd take me shopping downtown today, and maybe to lunch if I didn't bore you.' She laughs. Well, actually it is more of a simper.

Derek told her she bored me? He volunteered Dr. Casey McDonald's precious time to aid _his_ wife's shopping spree? My eyebrows rise steeply at this information, but she just pushes right on, 'And he also said that you probably wouldn't appreciate a visit from me, because you'd be all blue and weepy about something you thought you'd lost. But I told him I could fix that with a strong cup of tea. So, you go get yourself spruced up.'

Before I have time to process any of these most unwelcome and humiliating revelations, this vision of bright red silk and leather-booted horsiness, who - unbearably, incredibly - seems to be _my_ new step-sister-in-law, is in _my_ kitchen and has the kettle on.

Memories of all sorts recede into the darkest corners of my high-ceilinged flat, where they will stalk me, I'm sure, on another lonesome night. For now, I drag myself into the bathroom and strip to my underwear before slamming the door and finally bursting into tears. I am in for a very, very long day.

**Next chapter: the shopping expedition extraordinaire (tragi-comic in the extreme) and possibly, if you want it badly enough... the camping trip memory. But the update might not be for a while: too much on at work; so, apologies in advance.**


	3. Shopping with the Enemy

**I don't own LWD, as ever. I am appropriately apologetic for not updating in two weeks. I've had Dasey withdrawal symptoms and reviewer withdrawal symptoms all mixed up, so am personally very happy to be back, even with this teaser. I hope you enjoy.**

**Chapter Three – Shopping with the Enemy **

We're done finally. Derek's wife has tried on every dress in the store (over the price of three hundred dollars, because cheap material brings her out in a rash, her nanny once told her when she was six, and she's believed it ever since). I've stood at the entrance to a sequence of perfumed changing rooms, fiddling with my cell phone, chewing the ends of my twisted hair, sickening more with each bite. No one has called to save me from this trite little drama of wannabe mistress watching real-life wife try on new clothes. Not a solitary soul. And why should they? Who cares or even knows, for that matter apart from the man who set it all up in the first place? But I can't think about him. Not here, and not now. The pain is just too raw.

Um. Did I just write that stuff about mistresses and wives? It must be my feet (killing me); or my mind (lost, so very lost); certainly not my heart – sobbing, writhing, but curiously refusing to die.

What I actually mean is that curiosity was the only thing that kept me breathing through those taut, surreal hours.

Because while I stood and watched, and she tried on armloads of clothes – chiffons and silks, scarves and suits, evening gowns and glamour wear, stuff I'd have gossiped about and rated with Emily but simply gawped at on her – in stores I'd walked past for ten years but never been into, she also talked and talked and talked: and I, of course, listened.

Derek this and Derek that. How he'd swept her off her feet at a music festival in Reading, England. Of all the shallow places.

Mud and tambourines and bass guitars and the sickeningly sweet patter of a _devastatingly handsome _man looking for a quick romance with no strings attached (was it just me, or did she leave out that last part?).

Except that this time, the invisible golden strings (Daddy's money, not a harp, unfortunately) had wound themselves tightly around my thirty-something step-brother's ankles before he was even aware of them, and were drawing him inexorably back to Daddy's Estate in Oxfordshire, to the velvet lawns and brocade cushions and the poached-eggs-for-breakfast that _my_ Derek – the dashing, tumultuous, spoilt but irresistibly wild-hearted boy I'd honed my wit and staked my spirit upon – used to swear would make him gag.

There was even a butler in their family mansion, I gathered from her gushing recital. Fancy that. And Derek – _her_ Derek – thought it was all totally grand. In fact, it wasn't long before she knew, _just knew_, that he was _Mr Right_. Days, rather than weeks.

How perfectly awesome, I muttered, imagining him learning to shoot pheasants with her father, and trying not to imagine what happened after dark, when they lit real fires and her parents retired to their respective bedrooms with a brandy or a cocoa but definitely with a wink in Derek's direction.

Why wasn't she promised already to some neighbouring politician? How could they have allowed an uncouth interloper like Derek Venturi – a Canadian high-school teacher on Spring break, with no money and dim prospects – to court their one and only daughter and the heir to their wealth? Why hadn't they simply run him off their property? You'd think I was jealous.

She didn't quite get to tell me the bit about when he proposed to her though, because, wounded and shrieking as my heart was, my brain was functioning enough to make me say at that point that she looked _utterly smashing_ in a sequinned green ball gown with a slit up to the knee. As, indeed, she did, in a sort of pinched, bleached, polished way.

Distracted by this unwholesome praise, she had to look at herself in a mirror very carefully for a full half hour, and then to have it wrapped and charged to her Daddy's account, which, given that we were in Montreal, and that her accent was not immediately understood by the fresh-faced teenager at the till, took rather a long time.

After that there was lunch, which consisted of something tough and bloody, that forced her to chew very hard and take little gasping sips of champagne in between.

And then – spooky luck, this! – we just happened to be around the corner from my office and I said, 'Oops! I have a meeting that I'd forgotten all about, but since we're here, I really should go in and apologise to the team and find out what they decided about the Year Two curriculum. Why don't you come along in? It shouldn't be more than an hour.' Her look of surprise was matched only by the expression of boredom when I started to discuss with her the content of the (highly fictitious) meeting I'd been meant to attend. I lie with more verve, these days, than I did as a teenager. And it pays off.

'Leave you to it, then, Casey. But _do_ call when you're done, darling! Here's my address.' were her parting words, as she unburdened me of her many shopping bags (cloth, paper and gilt-edged cardboard, no plebeian plastic for her) and started down the hill towards their apartment (which, it turns out, is eerily close to mine).

So here I am, hiding out in my empty faculty office, leaning back in a worn old chair near the wide open window, idly watching the dancing sunlight on the trees, the way it weaves its feathery fingers in and out, in and out between the twigs and branches, making even the best words seem too humble a description. I tap my feet on the windowsill, sniff the air. Someone, somewhere along the street, is frying pancakes. It is a homely, loving smell.

Then I sigh, several times – because, of course, there's no-one here and I have the place to myself again. And finally I unclasp the lock on that awkward, delicious caravan trip with Derek and our family that was both the undoing and the making of us. My fingers, first so restrained, then snatching wildly at his hair. The smell of rain all around our tent and the jagged silence of our long-suppressed desire. Fresh as blood.

Lack of sleep has sharpened my memory.

**Next one real soon, I promise: 'Caravan Blues' with the rest of the memory. Review this, and it'll appear all the quicker!**


	4. Caravan Blues

**Don't own it. Saving up, so that maybe one day…no! Too much effort. And thanks so much, lovely reviewers. **

**Chapter Four – Caravan Blues**

I'd be lying if I said that I hadn't felt Derek's absence keenly, even way back then.

That vacation after our freshman year at college was the first time I was properly seeing him in months.

All through the year I'd kept on telling myself that the fact that we were doing different courses, at different universities, in distant cities, meant that we rarely made it home at the same time. (Four hours on Christmas eve didn't count.)

Our non-meeting wasn't planned. Or at least it wasn't planned on my part, since by about my third day away from home I'd given up denying that the person I longed most to see and hear from was the one I'd been at war with for the past four years. And if you think there are things I'm not telling you about the weeks before we departed for our respective campuses – then you'd be right. But that, as they say, is a different story, for a different time.

I'd left home with spectacular hopes and a new (less gauche) wardrobe than I was accustomed to (courtesy of two summer jobs); I'd settled into my routine of lectures and seminars easily (I was often sitting at the door an hour before they started and working on papers late into the night); my grades had never been better. But my social life – you could say that it had lacked lustre. (I cringe, even now, thinking about how my few loyal friends must have viewed me. Then I stop flinching. Lack of self-consciousness makes it easier to be different. Derek would have said that was a euphemism for an _outcast_, but, thankfully, he's never going to be reading this.)

You can't write devastatingly bitter, witty little essays on post-Feminist critiques of Romantic poetry and then spend every night wrestling with searing nostalgia about duelling your sensual, deceptively relaxed stepbrother for the car keys without realising that all is not right with your emotional stability.

By the end of the second semester, when I was positively every lecturer's dream student (and that's saying something – we had several competitive historians in our Shakespeare class, with vocabularies and memories in triple figures, and a couple of ambitious philosophers in Nineteenth Century Criticism, who dazzled during lectures but never handed in assignments), it had dawned on me that Derek and I had unfinished business. Or perhaps, I had unfinished business and he was the business. In those days, such distinctions were lost on me.

I would be reading _Much Ado About Nothing_, imagining the hero and heroine sparring, and what do you know! Derek's face would pop into my head, saying the very words off the page.

On the social network site most favoured by our peers, in between writing notes to Emily and Sam and Luna, (my roommate), researching essays, collecting signatures for online petitions for good causes, I'd explore Derek's profile, staring especially at the pictures that other people uploaded of him in various states of joyous inebriation, it seemed, willing him to update it, willing him to respond to the sexual, bitter or coy scribblings on his wall so that I could glimpse his cards, read his hand, win a round. But he never did.

Derek was always more real and _present_ – more vibrant – _in the flesh_ than he was in the virtual world. (Didn't stop him having nearly six hundred 'friends' though, in comparison to my seventeen.)

I would get asked out on a date or to a meeting for some seriously worrying issue. And I'd go. And I'd still be back in bed, alone, before midnight, because I couldn't bear to be deprived of my two hours 'revision time' (actually spent fantasising about him, going over every feature I never knew I'd memorised, in such detail that I wished they'd had an exam at the end of that course).

The subject of my mental dissertation never called, although, surprisingly, occasionally, a friend of his would dial my number from his cell phone and say, apologetically, 'Sorry, just messing with ya. Derek never said who you were.' Or, pityingly, 'He's been real busy lately…er... Candy.' (Like they cared.) Once, drunkenly, someone called Pete rang me and said, 'He still loves you. More than all the others. You sound awesome, baby!' It makes me sick with shame to tell you this, but I actually clung to that elusive, second-hand, drunken comment more than to any of the very real affection I was getting from my two close friends and the rest of my family.

You get the picture.

So, by the time that summer came round in bursts of startling pink light and dusty town odours, I was ready to self-combust at the thought of actually spending a month in Derek's company.

Having turned down offers from two of my lecturers to teach at their poetry summer school, and from Luna to accompany her family to Mexico, I drove back to London with my stomach churning.

But then, he got home (there was no hugging, at least for me, barely a glance in my direction and a distinct dearth of made-to-measure Casey insults) – and somehow my enthusiasm wilted under the scrutiny of Derek's knowing brown eyes, the small details about conquests and parties that he dropped with Edwin but politely refrained from in my presence, the awkward silences when my parents left us alone in the room for five minutes.

I tried my best to start fights. But he wouldn't play.

Will you understand if I tell you how frightened I was? Simply terrified. Had he matured out of all recognition? In every other way, he seemed much the same. Had he lost interest in me, then?

The nameless thing between us in those weeks seemed to inhabit every corner of our house, colonising the very air we breathed: my longing and disappointment; his artificial calm.

By the time Nora and George planned their annual holiday and included us for the sake of family health and future stability, I had begun to dread each day, the way the absence of Derek in each inadequate moment of it made me more unsettled and less productive than ever I had been when away from home and imagining him. Be careful what you wish for…

I'd even begun to have dreams about him. One recurring dream in particular, that might seem predictable to all of you amateur psychologists, but that shocked me afresh each time. In it, I'd come home from somewhere – perhaps a trip abroad, for I was always carrying luggage – and ring the bell on our door only to have it opened by a stranger. A woman: poised and neat, wearing an apron. I would be polite at first, thinking that my mother, in the dream, well into her fifties, had engaged a maid to help out.

But no. This woman was far too polished.

And then the nightmare would unfurl, as Derek appeared beside the woman, put his arm around her, and they both looked at me: so calm, so level, that look; so unspeakably condescending to my suddenly-panicked gawping. And she'd say, 'Well, hi there, I'm _Derek's wife_. And you are…?' And I would wake, eyes brimming with tears.

Those were the days when many in our community were worrying about war and economic recession, human rights and environmental wrongs. And there I was: angsting about my dreams and the fact that Derek wouldn't quarrel with me anymore. (I had always slightly despised the Bridget Jones type – certainly never imagined myself as that shallow caricature of a liberated woman.) Looking back, I don't even have the energy to feel contempt for my nearly-nineteen-year-old self.

So, if I tell you privately that I almost high-fived George when he made it compulsory for both of us to join them on the Caravan trip to Prince George and the Rockies ('at least for the first ten days, if you want to stay rent free with us for the rest of the vacation') you won't be surprised.

You might be taken aback if I tell you that since Derek and I left for university, George had begun to lay down the law a lot more successfully than he had when we'd been around and that this new firmness did not falter on our brief summer sojourn.

I didn't have a chance to find out how Derek felt about this latest parental command, because he only got home from some party at Sam's cousin's place around three that morning and hummed or slept inscrutably behind his shades for the first six hours of the trip – plane to Vancouver, and then something tiny approximating to a plane onwards from there to Prince George.

(When he bared his eyes for airport security, I noticed something like suppressed mirth, but he whipped those shades back on so quick, I didn't get a chance to confirm it.)

Both of us had taken summer jobs. He had effectively quit his by coming away with us. I was hoping I'd get mine back, but trying not to worry about it.

Marti and Edwin were jovial and kept up a stream of amusing banter, sometimes including and sometimes aimed at Derek and me.

Lizzie's more pronounced sweetness made me want to cry. My little sister! It was as if she sensed I wasn't myself, and set out to make things right: if she'd only known. But how could she? How can anyone foresee the future?

Nora and George looked like they were all ready to enjoy our company. For the first and perhaps the last time.

You're getting desperate, I can tell. The Caravan, you're thinking. Yes. The caravan.

--

Well, apart from the fact that we'd been travelling since the crack of dawn, things had been reasonably tranquil between the seven of us, until we hit the caravan.

Sure, it was just where the brochure had said it would be, on stone blocks in an isolated clearing with a running stream and a view of sloping tree-covered ground and a river. Sure, Prince George had looked like a neat town, various artsy cafes and boutiques nestled away between houses and hotels, and the taxi-driver we'd hired to drop us out here couldn't stop singing the praises of everything in the area.

But when it came down to it, all we wanted to do that evening was to shower, watch television, eat and sleep. And so, the creeping tendrils of disbelief and resentment set in pretty sharply when we discovered that there literally were only four beds in there. A Double and two singles. Four beds. Seven People. You do the maths.

As the taxi driver had left already, we were forced to walk the two miles to the campsite office. Or at least George was. This he did with relatively good grace, seeing as he had been the one to book the caravan, while Nora had sorted out the flights. You see, I've forgotten none of the details, although this was nigh on a decade ago. Details. That's my middle name, these days.

While George was gone, my mother was pretty good-humoured, valiantly making the tea (stuffed crust pizzas which we'd purchased earlier, heated in the microwave, with my help) and ignoring Marti's muttered annoyance that the tiny television had no reception. Derek just sat on a stone outside nodding his head to some tune on his IPOD, while Ed and Liz played cards on George's laptop.

The cityishness of my family had made me smile, even through the haze of anxiety brought on by my proximity to Derek and his to me after so many days missing, longing and avoidance.

But when George returned an hour later looking crestfallen and shaking his head even before he reached us, my mother's annoyance showed itself in the thin line of her pretty lips and little else. The rest of us were not so forgiving. Realising the extent of what this might mean, Edwin, Derek and I all made for the beds, throwing ourselves at the empty spaces. It was clearly not going to work.

After a brief consultation together at a safe distance, Nora and George called a family meeting. We sat around the dining table (again, only four chairs, so Marti sat on Nora's lap and Derek and I sat on the nearest bed).

George spoke first.

'We've decided that we're just going to have to make the best of this situation. They're fully booked for the next two weeks. So are all the hotels in Prince George. Mrs Morrow, who runs the place is going to try to bring us a camp bed and a blow up mattress tomorrow in her truck. Till then – Lizzie and Marti, you guys are going to have to bunk with Nora and me. Edwin, you can have one of the beds. Casey you can have the other. Derek is going to have to set up the tent and stay in it, at least until we can think of some other plan. Thank goodness we brought it along. I know that's not ideal' (Lizzie looked miserable; Derek furious; Marti amused) 'but it's all we can think of at this late hour. Any questions?'

'Just one.'

'What is it Casey?' He didn't sound wary, because I was normally the one who assisted at such junctures, explaining, easing, appeasing, especially since in this case I had my own bed. But in this case, he couldn't have been more wrong.

Derek was being banished. And I'd just spent eight hours thinking with supreme pleasure of sharing the confined space of a caravan with him for eight nights. Raving mad, you're thinking. Have you never felt like that when a secret hope was snatched away from you by some quirky, completely incidental occurrence? I was shaking.

'Why is it that every single time you are left to sort anything out, George, something goes wrong? I mean, you're the one who insisted we should come on this family vacation. Both Derek and I had jobs. You could have just left us behind and come by yourselves if you were just going to send Derek off on his own – '

'Casey! Get a hold of yourself.' My mother had cut me off. Incredulous does not describe the looks I was getting from everyone, Derek included. What had possessed me, I still do not quite know.

I was used to standing up to bullies on Derek's behalf – but George was no bully.

Something about my tirade had stung him to the quick. Perhaps it was the self-righteous tone. I used it a lot in those days, before loss and confusion dulled the edge of my self-belief; before I quite realised how strength and weakness can look confusingly similar when men wear them casually beneath an outer shirt.

George had always been more than patient with me on previous occasions, so I suppose I never expected a rebuke.

'Okay, Casey, I've had just about enough today. Since you so charmingly described me as _always incompetent_ and since you've taken it on yourself to speak for Derek, I'm assuming you will want to accompany him outside tonight. You've eaten, I can see. Here's the tent. We'll all talk again in the morning. Good night.'

And with that, George drew himself up and stood by the door, holding it ajar. Derek swore under his breath and took the tent from his father's hands. 'Way to go, Space Case, maybe one of your famous poems might do the trick, you think?' He brushed past me on his way to the door and I could swear that he was shaking with laughter.

My mother was shaking her head at George in mute appeal, but it was too late. Some family holiday, this was going to be. I was so embarrassed that I didn't even have the presence of mind to apologise.

My knees almost gave way as I followed Derek out.

We were standing in a darkening clearing surrounded by the sound of fast-rushing water and wind through high trees, holding an unfamiliar tent, and the door had been locked against us.

He walked a few paces with the tent and tested the ground with his boot to see if the soil was soft enough. When he found a spot, he dropped the tent and knelt down, but raised his face in my direction.

'Okay, I guess we'd better get to it – not much light left, Miss Peacekeeper.'

Finally he took his shades off and looked directly at me, causing my body to heat and prickle in places I'd never even believed existed, the skin of my chest going tight in the suddenly chilly breeze. I tried to look defiant but the sympathy in his eyes deflated and mystified me. 

All through the next hour as we fumbled with strings and canvas, and the breeze rose and wailed around us, it was the thought of being inside that thin cocoon, alone with the owner of those shining eyes that kept my heart beating, beating, beating, as fast as ever a heart could beat.

**Sorry folks, this was becoming monstrously long and I had to chop it in half – but patience. You can see that they have arrived at the moment you crave! Next chapter…indeed.**


	5. Inside the Tent

**LWD – distinctly not mine.**

_Previously: Finally Derek took his shades off and looked directly at me, causing my body to heat and prickle in places I'd never even believed existed, the skin of my chest going tight in the suddenly chilly breeze. I tried to look defiant but the sympathy in his eyes deflated and mystified me. All through the next hour as we fumbled with strings and canvas, and the breeze rose and wailed around us, it was the thought of being inside that thin cocoon, alone with the owner of those shining eyes that kept my heart beating, beating, beating, as fast as ever a heart could beat._

**Chapter Five – Inside the Tent, August 2009**

'There. What'd'ya think, Case?'

'Amazing.' I was genuinely puzzled by how we'd managed to sort out all the strings and end up with the tent standing firm against the wind when my hands were shaking and Derek never listened to any of my instructions.

We were done.

In the gloom, Derek looked pleased with himself and with me. I didn't have the heart to tell him that we had neither light nor anything to sleep on. But he seemed to have taken care of that in some mysterious way, because the moment I turned, there was my mother, arms loaded – handing us quilts, my overnight bag, a flashlight and, to Derek's obvious joy, several packs of cookies, some toasted almonds and a bottle of wine.

She looked as if she wanted to say something to me, but I was halfway into the tent, too embarrassed to look at her, so she contented herself with patting Derek on the arm. After all, for perhaps the first time in the history of our blended family, none of the visible mess was his fault. The invisible stuff of course, (tissue damage to my heart being top of the list…), well that's a different story.

By nine that night, we were curled up at opposite ends of our shelter, embedded in a quilt, sipping the wine out of plastic cups. Derek had used the second quilt as a headrest. I can't speak for him, but I was feeling completely relaxed and contented: there was no way we could be separated, at least for the next ten hours (contrary to the way in which some people have represented me in the past, you're beginning to see that I was not averse to Derek's company).

Beyond the immediate future, I was not thinking; which, as you'll be quick to point out, was very unlike me. But what can I tell you? Just being there with him and nobody else was about as heavenly as my life was going to get. Why spoil it by worrying?

Derek had been laughing to himself on and off while we drank our wine but he didn't tell me what it was about. I tried to talk to him – about my Politics minor, about a strange professor I had, who always seemed to be looking out a window when he taught us, about my roommate Luna, whom Derek would have hated, because she was more like me than I am. He said 'Hm, Hm', and seemed to be waiting for me to continue. Then I was quiet, the energy required to talk simply vanishing as I watching him uncurl himself and stretch. Shallow. But at least there was no-one judging me then.

He looked as if he had a pretty good idea of what I was feeling and was considering how best to use it against me. But I wasn't sure how. Was it so obvious on my face? Have I always been that transparent? And anyway, after ten months of absence, abstinence and one month of scary mature Derek, I was quite prepared to be insulted, if it meant we stood a chance of being close. (I didn't intend to take his meanness lying down, of course. Nothing like a bottle of wine to loosen my tongue.)

But things simply did not go how I had anticipated. Instead of saying something cutting or witty at my expense, Derek groaned, laid his head down near my feet, and (passing up the priceless opportunity to tell me they smelled) appeared to fall asleep.

Huh?

I stared at him in disbelief for a while, biting my nails furiously and contemplating opening the tent flap to allow wind and rain and summer lightning to overwhelm us then and there.

Then I switched off the flashlight and tried to get comfortable – but he had one of the quilts rolled up under his head, and I was beginning to feel cold; thinking no harm could come of it, and secretly pleased to be closer to him, (although we had explicitly agreed to sleep top to toe at some point), I scooted round so that my head was next to his. He was lying on his side, curled into himself so that his back was to me and in the dreadful darkness I could see nothing. Nothing at all. Which sharpened all my other senses uncannily. I was warmer then: but comfortable?

I could smell his hair, a mixture of shampoo and cigarette smoke that I would have hated on anyone else. I could even feel it, if I moved my cheek slightly. And my hand was barely an inch from Derek's back.

Would you have fallen asleep in a sanguine manner next to someone you had something probably more akin to a thundering obsession with than a crush on? It always amazes me how people think that you can just naturally drop off when your mouth is dry, your pulse racing and every single tiny fragment of skin you possess is screaming at you that you need to move closer, closer, close the distance between you and that other person…

No. There was nothing comfortable about the position I found myself in, disappointed, (and in the most humiliating manner), for the second time in a single evening. The absurdity of my imaginings and hopes about my stepbrother could not have been outlined more clearly had he actually laughed in my face instead of falling asleep at six minutes to ten on the first night of our vacation because what could possibly be more boring than an evening alone with Casey?

To tell the truth (which is something I try really hard to avoid doing these days – although outright lies are saved for people like Derek's wife) – I felt the tears hot and salty in my mouth even before I knew I was crying. And they just wouldn't stop.

I tried really hard not to shake or to allow even the most miniscule of sounds to escape my lips. Gradually, however, my nose got blocked and I couldn't breathe properly, so I had to take a gasp of air. And you know me – I wanted desperately to blow my nose. So finally I gave up trying to be really quiet and dug around in my overnight bag for a tissue. I blew my nose with my back to Derek, hoping that the scurrying wind outside would muffle the sound.

Then I lay back down and tried not to start sobbing all over again. I wished I was back in the privacy of my room at home.

Then suddenly Derek said, 'Would it help if I kissed you?'

He said it in such an awake, matter-of-fact voice that I almost thought I had imagined it. I almost didn't answer.

But sometimes I do the weirdest things and talk to people in my dreams, to people in my head. Just on the off-chance that they might hear me (and because I'm afraid they might think me rude if I don't respond). And this was one of those times.

'Yes', I said fervently, but in a voice scratchy and hoarse from crying, 'It would help.'

--

Derek turned and I turned, towards and into each other, my arms snaking across his back and his framing my head; and he didn't kiss me at once, but felt my face with gentle fingers, touching around my eyes to check if they were open, stroking down my cheeks along the still wet channels, his thumbs brushing my lips and coming to rest against my chin.

'Casey.' He breathed my name. 'Casey.'

Then, in a shuddering breath, steadying me against him, 'Don't hate me in the morning, okay?'

I loved him so much then, so much. I swear I knew I loved him before he kissed me or I kissed him back in the darkest darkness either of us city kids had ever known.

And his lips were warm and sweet. With wine and chocolate and something like a year of suppressed longing.

--

**Sigh. End of writing marathon for the moment, go on and review… **

**next: the rest of the tent scene, that holiday and then back to the present with a bang! That'll have to wait a while: my family and friends want me back. For budding novelists amongst you, Google 'NaNoWriMo', National Novel Writing Month – a friend of mine told me about it. I don't think I can participate this year but if you can, why not try it? **


	6. The Unbecoming Daylight

**LWD doesn't belong to me. Readers, you are a multicoloured, singing rainbow (or just awesome). Thank you so much for the reviews, the PMs and the warmth of the friendships being offered. **

**Chapter Six - The Unbecoming Daylight**

In the present, I'm leaning back in one of the swivel chairs in our departmental room; I have my feet up on the windowsill, sandals off, (yes, I have slim ankles and even I on occasion, feel smug about this) and the evening sunlight now slants across my trim torso. It's over an hour since I ditched my unwanted companion and set out on this path towards a chocolate-sweet memory that I have never shared with anyone.

I've got a bad feeling about this. If I continue, and allow you access to those hours – so precious to me, so long kept secret, for my sake and for his – then how will you think about me? About him? Perhaps we will never be the same Derek and Casey to you again? Perhaps you will despise us.

I cannot bear to imagine it: all you sweet pigtailed and honey haired teenage girls in your loft bedrooms; you sultry students in your pretty dorms decorated with pictures of home, flicking channels on the tv in the hope of seeing something really new that will move you deep down the way some beautiful boy or girl does; you calm housewives, juggling children, parents, the tea and your group of friends without ever letting fall a word about your anxieties and cares… I have never been able to bear the outright disapproval of others.

Perhaps it stems from my childhood. From the way my daddy left me and never came home. Now, at thirty-something, I refuse to think back that far, to those old scars. There's enough that's piteous and tearful in what I'm about to tell you. If I decide to go ahead with this…

And perhaps, after all, you aren't quite as innocent or disapproving as I've made you out to be. Perhaps you've had your share of knocks and disappointments, and made your share of mistakes. Perhaps you wear cargo pants and have a pierced eye-brow. Perhaps your parents argue late into the night. I guess, then, that I should just trust you, and go on with my story? At least, on with the bits of it that have any remote interest for you. It's devastating to imagine being disliked, let alone hated. But I guess this is like a leap of faith.

--

'Don't hate me in the morning', Derek had said, that night, in the darkness of our tent.

'Don't hate me', as he nuzzled my face with his chin (and I nuzzled right back), stroked my hair (but not before I'd twisted my fingers in the strands at the base of his neck), pressed tiny kisses to the corners of my mouth, my eyebrows and my nose (but pulled away before I could repay him). My hands were now everywhere, exploring him in the darkness, the way I never dared even attempt with my eyes in the light of day. He 'Mphed' softly and I blushed and the night obscured it all.

You'll be glad to know that I had stopped sobbing. Even the ghosts of my tears were nowhere to be seen.

We were pressed together so close that only a magician could have whistled a piece of paper between us. Desire and sweat silvered along my body under Derek's palms, making me twitch. And yes, I know what you're thinking.

I knew that I wasn't the only one experiencing something quite different from platonic heat. Derek's body was quite easy to read, if you actually got to hug it the way I was finally being allowed to do. He clearly liked me back and I was as close to joy as I'd ever been. So I wasn't thinking anything much – apart from how this was the best holiday I'd ever been on, bar none – when Derek snapped the silence in two. Just like that. Snap.

'I need you to listen to me.' His voice was harsh. And tense. Not the usual laid-back drawl that both infuriated and aroused me.

'Okay.' I wondered if I'd hurt him somehow during my reckless exploration. (Yes, boys and men can get hurt too, by those of us too inexperienced or inept at the art of seduction!) And trust me, at nineteen, with strong views on self-respect and commitment (you can interpret that how you will – Derek would have said it meant I was a hideous prude and wouldn't let any of my previous boyfriends have their wicked way with me – I wasn't particularly sure of myself in such situations.

'Okay.' He echoed me and took a deep breath. Then – startling me more than he could have imagined – he pushed me away from him, holding me at arms length in the gloom. We could not see each other, obviously, but I felt as if he was trying to see me, to read my face.

'Can we switch on the flashlight?' He asked.

'If you want.' He must have heard the listlessness and humiliation in my voice, because he pulled me back towards him a little and said quickly, 'Forget it. But I want to talk to you now. There is something… something that you're not going to like at all. I'd rather say it now and be done with it. Otherwise you'll do something and I won't be able to resist and we'll both be hurt and regretful in the morning.'

It was the most I'd heard him say in months. I began to hope that all he was talking about was that we didn't possess much needed protection. I'd been worrying silently about that, though I'd never have admitted it out loud. I didn't say anything though, because the pressure of his hands on my arms was message enough. I could smell the wine on his breath, heady and slightly sour.

'I'm sorry Case. You know. I want you to know that.'

No. No. No. I didn't want him saying any more. Derek had never apologised to me in his life. Very suddenly my head was clear, my breath shallow with fear.

'It's my fault we haven't talked in the last few weeks', (try months, Derek), 'and I'm sorry I've been such an ass around you.' Well, I wanted to say, let's not talk now, let's just rewind to where we were. I can handle the silence better when your hands are on my hips. But I stayed quiet. It's not easy to talk with an elephant breathing inside your chest. But he was on a roll now; there was no stopping this conversation.

'Truth is, Case, I've not known what to do, or who to talk to. As you can probably guess (yes I could, oh yes, I was beginning to guess) this is about a girl.' He seemed to expect me to say something, so I let out a noncommittal 'um'.

'Sandy. I hooked up with her last Christmas. She was sweet and funny … and I was missing you.'

Wait, what? He'd been missing me? When he partied non-stop for six days on our break and spent all of half an evening with me?

'I know, Case. I know you're thinking this is just another line, just some bullshit line I'm feeding you to get sympathy. But.' He stopped, drew a painful breath. And I knew. Derek didn't want sympathy. He never wanted that from me. He wanted understanding. Respect. Challenge. Maybe even advice.

'Okay, so we went out a few times. Then I didn't see her for some months because I was doing stuff (not with the family, he wasn't) and she was studying. Then we hooked up again coupla' months after March break. At some party. Predictable, I know.'

'Oh.' It was all I could think to say since I could see the way this was panning out. Every time he said 'hooked up' I choked on an image of him unhooking some item of her clothing. Now I understood why he had pushed me to arms length. It was like the air inside our tent had just run out. Breathing was difficult enough without his hands gripping my wrists. I shrugged them off fiercely, eliciting a low groan from him.

'Casey, don't. Just hear me out, okay? Then you can be as angry as you want.'

I couldn't speak.

'I know you think I'm just a total jerk – but' (yes, well, you did kind of want me to think that, because jerkishness used to be cool, didn't it?) 'I don't just sleep with random girls. Okay? Do you believe me?'

It seemed to matter to him that I did believe him. So I stayed silent. He groaned again.

'Shit. Casey. This is not how I wanted it to be between you and me.' That finally churned some words into my mouth.

'You wanted something between us?' I know I should have been waiting for the rest of the story he was spinning me, but his edginess was throwing me off balance.

'Casey! How are you so smart and so utterly clueless? I wanted…' My question had almost made him hyperventilate. He was biting back tears, I was sure of it. He went on so softly I had to move closer again, 'I wanted something with you before you even looked twice at me. But I thought you – with your moral code and your prim mother and everything… I never thought or expected you to like me back. Okay? You were so superior and bitchy. Bailing me out of trouble. Cutting me down to size. Carrying on about your other boyfriends like I didn't exist. But – no. Don't make me do this now. I have to tell you. I have to tell you what happened with Sandy.'

So there was something more than her merely being his girlfriend and him not wanting to leave her just because he caught me crying in his tent? Talk about bad timing.

'Okay, go on', I said tightly.

'She called me two hours before we left for vacation. She was flaking out and crying something awful. She'd just done a test. Casey. She was completely distraught.'

'So?'

I was being stupid. She failed her test? She cried on her boyfriend's shoulder. At least she had a boyfriend. What gives?

'Are you listening to me? It was positive. Yup. That's it. I tried to persuade her not to tell her parents; I said we could stay back and sort it out. She told me it was against all her principles and she had decided already. She's keeping the baby.' He was holding my arms again, shaking me slightly with every word, and when he said 'baby', he must have felt the shiver of anxiety that ran through me.

Now I understood. Or at least I thought I did. She wanted to keep their 'accident'. He didn't. I was simply too furious to form a coherent opinion. But I had to hold it together. One of us had to.

'Okay, so the way I see it, you have to respect her wishes and get married, right? You got her pregnant - or at least you seem sure you did (_Where did that come from? I am a bitch sometimes!_) so make it right!'

'What!' Derek almost shouted at me. I was really shaking now. 'Are you completely mad?' (_me_, mad? Me – not the one who just 'hooked up' and casually got a girl pregnant and then equally casually suggested he help her to make the 'problem' go away?)

'Well, Derek, you obviously like her, since you two have been together – what? Three months now? And if you're going to tell mom and George they'd probably take it better if you told them you were taking it seriously and planning to support the baby and … and … Sandy.'

'Casey.' Derek took another deep breath. Somehow we had migrated back towards each other again and were whispering into each other's ears. The wind had picked up outside and the tent was quivering.

'Casey. There is really nothing between Sandy and me now except this mess. We dated a few times in May, after that party. Then she called it quits and I agreed – _man_ she turned out to be as neurotic as my mother. (_Good choice Derek. If he had said me, I'd have hit him._) This was the first time she called me in months. I've been stewing about it ever since (_Cue the long silences, the broodiness, the caffeine and adrenaline at night_). I can't think what to do. And for the record (_oh, so he heard my thoughts?_) I didn't suggest she end it without any thought. If she has a kid then I have to be there wherever it is. That's like … the end of everything. It's not just hers, is it? Mine too despite what you hinted. The whole thing hurts so much. I feel like there is nothing I can do – my life's just rattling down this hill at high speed. And there is nothing I can do to stop the crash.'

He was disintegrating beneath my fingers. I needed to intervene. So, despite my own shock and confusion, I said the first thing that came to mind.

'Well, you always were an accident waiting to happen.'

'What?'

'You know. Bravado. Inconsiderateness. Machismo: I know you know at least one of those words. Add them together and what do you get?' I couldn't help that my voice was hoarse again, thickening with tears. _But I was trying_.

'Space-Case.' He pulled me against him gently now. I went willingly: put my ear against his chest. Listened to his heartbeat. For the longest time. We were hugging so hard and so long that when I next looked up I was surprised to see Derek's face in the dim but unsettling glow of the newly risen sun.

He had dark circles under his eyes; his hair was tousled; there were tear tracks on his cheeks amidst the stubble.

'You'll get through this, one way or the other. You always do.' I murmured. _You_. Not We. There was no bitterness in my voice, I swear.

I don't know if he heard me then, but we kissed, slow and tender, before we fell asleep. Finally. Secrets crouching unwelcome beside us in the unbecoming light of day.

--

With a start I realise that it is now evening and a chilly breeze has taken the place of sunshine in my lap. The smell of pancakes has long dissipated.

I gather myself, shaking the thoughts away. One of my students cycles past me as I exit the building and I sketch a wave. Then I lock all the doors carefully and trudge back down the hill towards my empty apartment.

**Sorry this was so long - at least it feels long - the story just got away from me. What do you think? More on the present in the next chapter. The tale will unfold - both then and now.**


	7. Past Crimes

**LWD, so not mine. A huge bunch of thanks ****for all the kind words on this story and on **_**Inarticulate**_**. Casey's going to spring a load more stuff on you in this chapter, so don't stone me for thinking up such a twisted plot!**

**Chapter Seven - Past Crimes**

Climbing the stairs to my apartment I try to move real quiet and slow (a technique I learnt long ago from one of the Venturis in my household); and this isn't just because my limbs are aching after my misery yesterday and the sleepless night and the day of ill-at-ease shopping with step(ford)-sister-in-law and one afternoon of painful reminiscence. I move silently because I'm trying to avoid someone.

'Casey? What the heck?'

Oh Darn it! Obviously because I'm a McDonald it doesn't work. I swivel promptly to meet a pair of dark brown eyes, bright enough to rival Derek's.

Meet Shuli, my neighbour and best friend of twelve years.

She's plump and dimpled and deceptively innocent looking with her smooth black hair and colourful Indian shorts. But she's also frighteningly wry and sharp and witty. And while she smiles more than anyone else I know including my mother who's usually trying out for the most smiley mom position in a local magazine, I almost never escape a grilling when Shuli notices something different about me.

She doesn't actually spend many nights in her tiny apartment (on the floor below mine) these days as she's dating a guy who lives in one of those enchanting old wood and stone mansions up by the park. But today she's caught me.

'Ha. You caught me.' I sigh, giving her a quick hug.

'So why were you sneaking around at,' she looks at her watch, ' a quarter past eight? It's not as if I'm your mother or something.' Ouch. She has me there. I don't really know why I was trying to avoid her. (Well, actually I do. And it has something to do with the dreadful news pressing down inside my chest at the moment.)

'Uh Shuli! Where's Marcel?'

'He's at some dull concert with _the aunt_.' (_The aunt_ doesn't like Shuli. Thinks she's a social climber trying to cement her place in Montreal Society by marrying into a "respectable" family. Of course, this is the same aunt who feels that people with brown skin should still be maids and butlers, not college professors marrying her nephew, although she'd never actually come right out and say it.) 'But Casey, don't change the subject! What's up with you, girl? Why're you so pale and shaking like I caught you stealing my mail?' (She's referring to an unforgivable incident six years ago when I tried to prevent her from receiving some very unpleasant news from her parents by hiding her letters from her. She was proof-reading a book for me at the time, and I thought the shock of hearing that she was to be married to the family dentist in New Delhi might cloud her eye-sight and prevent her from spotting all my mistakes. Mea Culpa.)

'Okay, okay. I give up. Invite me in for dinner and I'll tell you everything.'

--

Two hours later we're curled up at either end of Shuli's comfy maroon couch. It's not particularly cold, this August night, but we've got a shawl over us just in case.

Everything in her diminutive apartment glitters or shines: small silver beads, cut-glass squares, bright colours, mirrors with wooden frames, thick woven rugs. She's addicted to collecting South Asian bric-a-brac and if you ever dare to suggest she throws something away… whoo! She can get fierce (as Marcel discovered, when he mentioned that he didn't know why she, a confirmed atheist, kept the kitsch little statues of her parents' Gods around the house).

But now, her dark eyes are fixed on me in compassion. And she's saying, for the sixtieth time,

'There's got to be some mistake. She can't be his _wife_! I know Derek better than that. He would never – he could _never_ do that, could he?'

'Well… .' I've been crying, but now the tears have stopped. 'Well.' I think hard about what to tell my friend.

'I did see her ring and it looked like something Derek might have chosen' (unlike the rest of her).

'Oh.'

'And she certainly knows tons of stuff about him, and she subjected me to an hour of gross courtship details today while she was in the changing rooms. So – I guess, he _would _and he _could_ and he _has_ done just that.'

We're both silent for a while.

As my constant companion – through the last two years of university and beyond – Shuli's known Derek a long time. In fact, oddly enough, she started out as Luna's close friend and ended up being mine, all around the time of the now famous caravan trip to the Rockies.

And when the revelations of that trip began to unfold in the real world (in all their fearsome complexity, it has to said), it was Shuli who helped me – and Derek – in every way she knew how.

Derek once did her the honour of saying she could be just about the coolest person he'd ever met (other than himself of course). And then again – she was a witness at my (very un-dramatic, uncool and not particularly happy) wedding. But that's another story, and I will get to that in due course.

Derek phones her nearly as often as he phones me. And he sometimes tells her things he doesn't want to tell me himself, knowing that she will rush up the stairs and spill the beans.

So I guess you could say that there aren't many secrets between the three of us.

Today, however she seems as genuinely shocked as I am, and both of us are kind of gloomy: I, contemplating the rest of my life without even the hope of being with the person I'm so obviously still completely, utterly, head-over-heels in love with; she, contemplating men in general, or just feeling sorry for me in particular.

At eleven, Marcel calls her and even though I try not to listen I can hear them snoodling over the phone. Then she's saying, 'No, No, baby, I don't think this is the right time; Casey's having a crisis,' and at that point I get up and kiss the top of her head goodnight, because I know that really, deep down, she'd actually like to have Marcel come over (not because she's dependent on him; but because she's desperate to hear the gruesome details of his aunt's latest ploy to split them up).

It's late, and it's dark as I climb the stairs and then finally fall into bed, and, thankfully, asleep.

--

Dreaming of Derek is almost like being awake with him, it's so vivid. And thrilling.

That night was no different. Having thought about him all day (and I know this might sound like a lie, but there _have_ been days over the past decade when I haven't thought about him!) it should come as no surprise that I dreamed about him. What _did_ surprise me was that this dream was almost like a continuation of the memory I shared with you earlier. Oh, it just got sadder and sadder.

When I woke just after six to a cloudy Friday dawn, I allowed myself to lie and think it all over, attempting to unpick the bits of the dream from the reality of what had transpired in the days following our night of secret revelations in the tent.

You'll remember, of course, that he confided to me about his 'hook up' with Sandy and the fact that she'd suddenly informed him she was pregnant.

When we woke around noon that day, to find that the rest of the family had left a note for us and gone for a very slushy walk in the forest, we breakfasted silently together in the camper.

I had allowed Derek to comfort me in the night, and enough of our intimacy still clung to us that we could sit together side by side on the caravan's only double bed as we ate. Heads occasionally touching, hands sometimes brushing, but nothing else. Kisses seemed unthinkable in the daylight.

Derek was openly low and didn't bother hiding his misery from me. And, angry as I was with him, every thought in my head was spent trying to sort out the mess he'd gotten himself into, because looking out for him had become second nature to me in the years since our families so inconveniently 'blended'.

Coming clean to his parents, and to my mother, seemed like a first step; whatever their reactions, at least he wouldn't be carrying around a secret that made him seem almost mad with unease and that might, quite possibly, put an end to the prospects of a career in Hockey. So I encouraged him to confide in them, and instead of fighting me as he usually did, or mocking my weak inability to deal with life without whining to adults, he simply nodded and kept shovelling food into his mouth.

I guess that you never exactly know the day you cross the line from being almost grown up to being an adult – and boys are often more confused about this than girls; but finding out that you are about to have a baby of your own must surely count as some kind of warning.

Much as I wanted to be beside him as he told George his news, the look in his eyes that day begged me not to be witness to this; so I made an excuse about needing the kids to help me gather wild salad and off we went. Nora was in the town checking out the boutiques. Derek was alone with his father.

The caravan had been very silent when we got back with our ragged bunches of wild leaves that looked and smelled like anything but edible salad. Ed and Liz were hyper and giggly. Marti was tired.

Evening was creeping towards us.

When we opened the caravan door, and I saw George sitting there on the unmade double bed in the gloom with his head in his hands, I knew that things hadn't gone well.

Derek was nowhere to be seen; and neither was his backpack.

Unexpected disappointments are often more sharply hurtful than unpleasant things which we know about and anticipate. The loss of Derek's company in this sudden manner, when we were just fumblingly letting down our guard with each other both physically and emotionally, (and when I had planned on having him almost to myself for the next eight days at least), completely felled me.

The need to maintain some semblance of external dignity was the only thing that held me together in those hours.

I threw myself into colouring in with Marti, getting the tea, arbitrating between Edwin and Lizzie in a game of chess (only I was so snippy that I ended up making them both angry with me) and then filling my mother in on the whole situation in a tearful whisper, while the others ate the absurdly large amount of pasta I'd cooked and tried not to let Marti hear a word. As it was, it hurt so much every time she turned to me and asked, 'But did Smerek tell you he was leaving? Did you ask him to go? I know he'd do anything you said, Casey.'

I decided not to think at all for the rest of the trip. (Thinking led to hope and hope was an illusion which I was not going to recover from soon.)

But it was no use. Alone in the tent that night and all the rest of those nights, knowing that Derek – whom I cared about beyond all reason – had flown back to 'make things right' (George's phrase) with the woman who was soon to become the mother of his child, I allowed myself to give way to a kind of misery that I had not experienced before and that has rarely engulfed me since.

--

Back in the present, when I finally climb out of bed, I notice that the light on my answer phone is winking frantically, as if it wants to get my attention. I throw on a dressing gown and drag myself towards it, filling the kettle and brushing my teeth before I press play.

It's usually some panicked student, asking me to read through an essay one last time before submission, or my mom, concerned that I'm not eating enough, or Shuli, trying to force me to come to some folk gig with her. But this time it's not Shuli or Nora or a student.

This time, it's Derek.

And when my heart quiets enough for me to hear him speak, he's saying breezily but with an undertow of tension that only I can ever sense, 'Hey Crazy, get out of your PJs and over to ours for lunch.' Then pausing, and more quietly, 'I hear you're not quite yourself at the moment, what with these unusual vacation meetings and your sudden aversion to my wife's company. So I'm thinking that you might decide not to come. But think again – Callum will be here. And I can tell you he's not looking…' Beeeeep.

Last night, the machine had cut him off. And he hadn't bothered to call back.

But I can think of nothing except getting into my day clothes and getting to theirs (where I swore I would never step foot because, for goodness sake, who chooses to have their nails pulled out and their heart crushed for fun?) for a social lunch (that I will detest and cannot imagine eating) as quickly as I am able. I'm wide, wide awake, listening to the high pitched squeal of Shuli's shower below me but almost trembling with anticipation.

Because someone who owns nearly as big a share of my heart as Derek will be there. Someone whom I have not seen in nearly five months. Someone who might share some of my sentiments about Derek's shiny new wife and who will not have the luxury of deciding not to lunch with them ever again.

Callum. Derek's eleven-year-old son.

**Ooh, I can tell you all hate me just now - there's too much going on! Review if you liked it and even if you didn't ...**


	8. Let's All Pretend

**I don't own LwD. Thanks so much for all the nice questions, ideas and suggestions in the last set of reviews. I get bundles and spirally sparkles of happiness from your letters and reviews.**

**Chapter Eight - Let's All Pretend**

Have you ever found yourself doing something that you absolutely completely swore you would never do? Oh I don't know, say, like changing your appearance to appeal to someone you claim you don't like; or deliberately saying you enjoy something that you don't to please a charismatic friend; or even letting your kids on a fairground ride that makes you ill with fear because they tell you other _cool_ parents do that? Okay, you haven't? Lucky you.

Then you won't understand the mixture of bemused embarrassment, adrenaline and self-loathing that accompanies me on my (very short) walk to Derek's new apartment.

I've crossed several lines over the years I've known him. And this – the one which could be termed 'socialising with the enemy-wife' – is another line he's forcing me to trample on.

The thought of ringing the doorbell and being admitted to Derek's home by someone else who _lives_ there _with him_ (someone polished and perky called Theodora Salter-Kress, who surely has not been through what I have with him, and cannot possibly feel for him what I do) gives me stomach cramps and fuzzy eyesight; but I stride on. I raise my hand and press the bell.

In the event, it is Derek who comes to the door.

Although his hair looks combed (and I have to fight a manic urge to ruffle it), he's his usual self in other ways, handsome and aloof. The dark green shirt looks familiar; the brown corduroy jeans are crumpled; he still sports a leather bracelet on his wrist that I gave him many moons ago. But I'm certain that one of these days someone else will be in charge of his wardrobe and I will no longer thrill with recognition on catching sight of a sleeve, a collar.

Now, I'm just wishing we were in the midst of deepest winter, just so I might have the pleasure of feeling his fingers brush mine as I hand over a coat or a wrap, and he's saying, 'On time, Casey? What a surprise', as he steps past me to close the door.

I'm about to respond, 'Want me to leave and arrive an hour later?' when a lean and wild haired boy throws himself at me, knocking me off my feet and into Derek's arms. He, of course, holds his balance admirably and steadies me with a warm hand on each shoulder.

--

So there we are like a small line of cartoon dominoes – Callum with his face pressed into my shoulder – mumbling 'Casey, _Casey_, why are you so late? Can I come and stay at yours?' – medium-sized me in the middle stroking his hair and kissing the top of his head, and Derek behind me, apparently more interested in massaging my shoulder blades with his thumbs and murmuring 'You should be honoured, Case, I was beginning to think Callum had outgrown the hugging stage', than in pushing us all upright.

This is how she sees us when she comes out of what must be their living room holding a white vase with two droopy sunflowers in it.

And it's like she sees – NOTHING.

'Oh, there you are Casey!' She says brightly. 'Splendid. Bang on time as Derek said you would be. I'm delighted to have found another stickler for punctuality in this godforsaken place. You'd think that nobody ever does what they say they're going to do. How in heaven do people make a living with this careless attitude to time? Daddy would be so horribly shocked, wouldn't he Derek? Remember what he told you about his experience in France?'

'Why?' I manage to whisper, looking at her over the top of Callum's head, as Derek disentangles himself from behind us and slides past, ignoring her. 'Has someone you were expecting not turned up?'

'Oh! Would you believe it, Casey, Sandra was supposed to arrive with this child yesterday at _four_ and instead she only deigned to show up at ours at seven, and then couldn't even stay for a cup of tea. And this morning – you'd hardly believe the to-do I've had getting _Patisserie Direct_ to cater this lunch; and Daisy – our new housekeeper – was supposed to be here an hour ago, but where is she?'

Having said all of this in her high-pitched emphatic manner, she disappears again with the disgruntled flowers, leaving Callum and me alone in the gloomy hallway.

I turn him around and gaze adoringly at his face.

What a stunning boy he is, with Sandy's perfect skin and Derek's dark hair and eyes. He has dimples too, although you can't see them just now, and the most mischievous arched eyebrows. He hasn't grown much, though, since I last saw him at Spring Break, and I note with a little quake of anxiety that he is perilously thin.

'How are you?'

'How d'you think I am? Did you know about _her_?' He moans at me, gesturing towards what I imagine to be the drawing room.

'Cross my heart, I had no idea until two days ago. Are you saying your dad didn't tell you?'

'Nope. I've been away in New York with mom and grandpa all summer. Dad rang me every night from England as he does when we're home, but didn't let on a word.'

'You got to hand it to your father. He does know how to plan a surprise.' I say, memories of birthdays past flooding my chest, but feeling Callum's tension and wanting to make him laugh.

I think it's the humiliation of having come all this way and feeling suddenly that his father isn't who he thought he was that is upsetting him, as much as the way she calls him 'Child' and talks critically about his mother's lack of punctuality. But then, perhaps I'm just projecting my feelings onto him.

After all, he's now had several hours of their company, so any number of things could have been said and done to make him this disgruntled.

'Shall we go in there and join them?' I venture, thinking that I would prefer to spend my entire visit in the hallway with him than go in and face the music. But still, I'm Casey. Queen of unCool.

'Nope. You come to my room.' His face brightens momentarily. 'Dad's given me an ipod dock and speakers _and_ a new Wii console as a bribe so's I'll shut up and behave. Sweet, don't you think?' I choke on my response.

We leave the hallway, and I get a glimpse of the beige drawing room as we whiz past. Apart from more vases on tiny tables, a giant white couch and a very expensive-looking chaise lounge upholstered in some frightening lime-green fabric, it doesn't seem to contain much; and curiously, certainly nothing even vaguely reminiscent of the muddy, slightly alternative rock music festival where these two supposedly met – I have no idea why this thought flitters through my head; (obviously most people don't live in a house which reminds them of where they met). But still. The contrast twists and twists in my stomach and my brain.

Callum has every reason to be proud of _his_ room – there's more gadgetry in it than most eleven-year-old boys see in their parents' houses all year round.

I don't know where to sit though, because the bed and the desk are squished up against each other.

Before I can decide however, one of the games' consoles is on, we're crouched on the bed with our knees tucked under us (lucky about my denim skirt, which handles such situations well) and somehow we are playing something fast and furious against each other but talking too about a hundred and one things. The last few months of school, his mother's new job which is in Quebec City (as a culinary writer, she moves around the country writing ever more weird and wacky restaurant guides; and he's bummed about losing all his friends, yet again, but thrilled that he'll get to see his father and me more often at least for a year or two), his grandmother's arthritis, the awesome New York Knicks, whom he has just seen at Madison Square Garden.

Then he says, 'You're going to help me get rid of her?' and I know exactly what he means. That's Callum for you. Doesn't waste any time.

--

Our game is interrupted by Derek, who leans against the doorframe and watches us, smiling lazily and giving me goose bumps. I curse myself and refuse to look at him.

'Dad!' Want to join? I'm winning and Casey needs all the help she can get.' Callum yells, smiling. That's more like his normal voice. Callum may be small and wiry, but he's LOUD, a bit like his aunt Marti.

Derek looks quizzical (there is really no space in this 'room' that should have been a closet) and then amused (that I'm losing), so I bat it right back at him, 'Yeah Derek, come on and join us, I'm sure we could beat Callum, unless you've lost all your skills…'

I know what I'm doing. Within seconds he's on the bed, kneeling beside me and shoving me to the side so he can get my controls; but I hang on and there we are going round another bend in some kind of spaceship with our hearts beating a furious tattoo for who knows what messed up reason. Do they even need a reason, those darn hearts of ours?

I lean my left shoulder against his chest (okay, he's gone and got himself a wife, but who says I've got to like his decision?) and then flip my wrist so that our spaceship not only passes Callum's but actually picks up passengers and glides through a black hole, garnering us eighty-thousand points along the way.

Callum groans and chuckles, glancing at his father with a sort of 'Duh' expression.

We are neck and neck – the spaceships, of course, but Derek's shoulder keeps bumping mine – when we all hear the distinct and incongruous sound of a hand-bell tinkling. Derek leaps off the bed and away from me as if he's been bitten.

'Lunch – that means lunch', he almost splutters and then, under his breath we distinctly hear him swear in a way that we're quite used to and that bodes ill for whoever tinkled that bell. Theodora Salter-Kress, be warned.

And when he's gone, Callum and I collapse backwards onto the bed in hysterical fits of silent laughter.

This lunch is going to be quite different than I'd expected.

--

Their dining room is all dark and austere, three times the size of Callum's bedroom; not quite the place that _my_ Derek would have chosen to digest his food in. But then perhaps it is being brought out for the first time to accommodate Callum and myself, and they usually eat on the chaise lounge in front of the – WAIT! I do a mental double take. I can't remember having seen a television in their drawing room. Derek. Living room. No television.

Theodora has set a placeholder for each of us. (She's like me, but some completely surreal version of me without the taste or the brains or the sense of humour). There are matching salt and pepper shakers, ghastly ornate silver napkin rings, three types of forks and a selection of wines. (I'm suddenly ashamed of how I used to aspire to sophisticated dinner parties when I was sixteen.)

She talks incessantly in her high-pitched breathy voice about how she's tried to model this room on her mother's stylish little dining room at home, (the one that is mainly for intimate friends of the family) but how she still feels it falls short in some way because she simply does not have her mother's eye. I try to imagine what mama Salter-Kress's large dining room is like and my imagination fails me.

Derek is impenetrably silent.

It's like something from a play: the set is absolutely right; the actors just haven't learnt their lines.

Callum catches my eye and I almost burst out laughing again.

--

The food is surprisingly nice – French rolls and salad and some very light pastries with layers of cheese and meat inside. I decide not to ask about the ingredients and concentrate, instead, on keeping Callum occupied so that he'll stop rolling his eyes at me, and not act like this is the first time anyone has ever shown him a knife and fork.

'So, what else did you do in New York?' I ask as a huge dollop of butter somehow leaps off Callum's knife and lands on his t-shirt, melting slowly into the fabric. But this time Callum has his mouth full, and it is Derek who saves him by responding,

'You spent a day with Lizzie and Uncle Ed, didn't you?'

'It was just awesome, Casey. They took me on this speedboat called _The Beast_. D'you have any idea how fast we went? Uncle Ed was GREEN! And they let me have double chocolate-chip ice cream and chocolate sauce after lunch _and_ after dinner, can you believe it? Boy am I going back there!'

'I've been on that with my father.' I tell him (leaving out the part where I wanted to barf and Lizzie spit up her coke all over our father's tie). 'It's the best. Did you get a photo?' and then politely to Derek's wife, 'Have you ever visited New York?' (Classy me.)

She shudders and makes a face. I quirk my eyebrows questioningly, and she says, 'Well, Casey, I have not. I feel no liking for the place. Can you imagine me surrounded by so many loud Americans? It's bad enough when they all come to Oxford in the summer…'

She's still talking, and Derek finally has a twinkle in his eyes, so I'm just beginning to relax, when BAM, I see Callum slip something pink from his pocket and secrete it amongst the bread rolls, too far away for me to reach and right next to Theodora's plate.

Derek's looking at me, and simply doesn't notice his son's antics.

Inwardly I groan. This boy has spent most of his life with his mother Sandra, who, though not impressively punctual and something of a hippie in her student days, is now generally quite proper and straight-laced. Yet somehow (perhaps it's genetic) he has absorbed his father's sense of humour and his love for the absurd and the grotesque.

Inexorably the situation unfolds.

Theodora reaches for the rolls, stares down to select one and gasps in a sharp little way as a set of sparkly pink dentures winks lewdly up at her from amidst the warm bread.

She drops the entire basket onto the table and stands up, tipping over her chair and a carafe of sparkling water in the process.

For someone who knows what to do to and with horses, she's not particularly comfortable around teeth, then.

'It's only a fake', I say, lamely.

Callum is on the floor, kicking his feet in the air.

Derek – why Derek's face is truly a study. For about three seconds he manages to stay sane, (even to pretend to look perplexed and disapproving, the way he must in the classroom, when the sophomores to whom he now teaches mathematics fail to hand in their assignments). And then he's down on the carpet too, rolling around beside his son and laughing his head off. And (this quite takes my breath away) he's pointing at his wife!

Then Callum and Derek are wrestling and tickling each other and the tasty little snacks on the table are shaking from all the madness.

Chaos reigns.

I can see that this is not restoring Theodora's good humour. When she sits down again looking furious after brushing off her frock and finding a stain on it, they are still not calm enough for food or conversation, so I say rather too brightly, 'You can see why life in our household was always quite a riot, can't you?'

She's looking dubious, her glossy lips pinched together in a way that puts me in mind of Marcel's aunt, when the doorbell goes.

I jump up and rush to admit Daisy, the new housekeeper, and show her to the kitchen where I assume her new mistress will bear down on her all too soon.

When I return to the dining room, everyone is seated again, silently sipping water or wine and munching on chicken goujons and mayonnaise as if nothing has happened.

Except that suddenly Derek looks up and our eyes meet, and there is something so desperate in his face that I almost forget to sit down.

It's the most unguarded look he has allowed me in these two excruciating meetings, and all of a sudden I understand that however painful it's going to be, however much my own heart gets sliced up and flung to the wolves, I can't just cut off and leave him to whatever fate he thought he was choosing. After all, there was a time when he did the same for me. Indeed there was.

I take a deep breath and wait for my heart to quiet down before reminding my hostess that her new housekeeper is awaiting her in the kitchen.

I am bound into Derek's story, for better or worse, as he is into mine.

**I thought I'd treat you to a long one this time, as I am away for a while after this and may not have the opportunity to update so soon. I'll be delighted if you got half as much fun reading this chapter as I had writing it. So take your time and review.**


	9. Unravelling

**I don't own LwD. I do apologise for the time it took to post this. My little boy has a horrid cough, and writing of an evening has been tough. Thank you for all the lovely reviews on this and on Sweet Like Chocolate. You guys are wonderful. **

**Chapter Nine - Unravelling **

Eight that night; yes, the same Friday night at the end of August 2020. It was turning into one of the longest days ever.

I probably should have been preparing – for the start of term, my new batch of students, editing papers. Instead I found myself seated in the crowded basement terrace of a trendy bar on St Denis, not far from my apartment, and just below a deliciously fragrant climbing jasmine which embraced the trellis and the wall, shedding its soft scent on nearby customers.

Montreal in summer is almost too good to be true.

There were glowing fairy lights in all the trees up and down the street, and while I waited for Shuli to get me a cocktail, I was busy reminiscing about all manner of things.

First off, I still couldn't shake the giggles that had overwhelmed me as I left Derek's place earlier in the evening.

Every time I so much as allowed my thoughts to brush up against the memory of Theodora's rage when she saw those gummy teeth… phew.

Laughter is a lot like soda. If you swallow it down it just tickles and tickles until you have to let it bubble up.

Watching Derek's wife squirm had felt strangely like payback for all the times I'd been the butt of similar jokes back in high-school (except of course, now, the stakes were far higher than my own injured dignity).

You're thinking I should have been sympathetic because I'd experienced Derek's pranks first hand? No way. Any woman who calls my Callum _That Boy_ deserves everything that's coming to her. But anyway, that's beside the point.

The thing that really freaked me out – I mean seriously made me feel that I was an actor in some badly put together pilot for a seedy soap opera – was Derek's behaviour as he saw me to the door.

I'd already arranged to meet Callum for lunch on the morrow, and to take him to the Biodome (which he is hyper-excited about and where, he whispered to me, we would find inspiration for our anti-Theodora campaign); so Derek wasn't trying to bribe me to get his son out from under Theodora's feet. Then Sandy had rung and he'd run excitedly into his room to take the call.

It was just that before I managed to get out the front door (I was trying to leave before Callum got bored of talking to his mother on the phone and before my hostess was through telling off the ill-fated Daisy for being late), I turned to say something to Derek.

I've even forgotten what I was meaning to say – but he distracted me totally by catching me by one arm and lifting a rough palm to my face and holding it there, stroking one thumb back and forth slowly across my skin as if I was a little kid, or as if he liked me – I mean really, _really LIKED_ me still, and was contemplating doing something he really shouldn't, given the not insignificant fact of a wife, back there in the kitchen.

Of course his touch brought back all sorts of sensations, which I blush to describe. And the hallway was dark, because the whole apartment lacked light, and anything could have happened.

And when I told Shuli about this, she shook her head and frowned at me as if I had committed some sort of huge crime by even thinking this.

I couldn't look at Derek when he put his hand on my face, and so I'll never know what I'd have seen in his eyes had I raised my own; but when I muttered something like, 'Thanks for the entertaining afternoon', and moved his hand gently from my face with my own, I distinctly felt him draw in a low breath, as if I'd hurt him, or as if he was struggling with himself: welcome to my world, I thought, and slipped out of that claustrophobic apartment before we were caught in something approaching a compromising situation.

'So! There's something just _not right_ about this marriage. I know Derek's an inconsiderate flirt but what you told me today... that just screams neuroses.'

I started out of my thoughts as Shuli thumped our glasses down on the table and pushed her way into her corner seat, speaking all the while. 'The Derek we know (and love) could never put up with stuff like that tinkly bell! And no TV in the living room? And then all this tension with you! Jeepers. It's like a badly written comedy', she said, echoing my very thoughts.

There are tons of reasons why Shuli and I are best friends, and telepathy is only one of them.

'Okay', I sighed, 'Go on and tell me what you've found out, Detective Shuli.' She had made it her mission to spend the last five hours interrogating my family about the situation (something I was just too wimpishly embarrassed to do because it would mean admitting both that I was interested and that I wasn't already in the know).

'Weeelll. You're not going to like this one bit, but Nora's convinced that Derek got into some kind of dreadful scrape on his travels in England. She says that there were lots of hushed phone calls with George and someone rather official called up one night, way past midnight, and said they were from the Crown Court and was this Derek Venturi's official residence.'

'Oh wow!' I felt breathless. Derek had got into trouble abroad? That wouldn't have been news if this were still 2008. But seeing as he'd been treading the straight and narrow as a teacher pretty much since Callum's birth over a decade ago (it was, in fact, part of the official custody agreement with Sandy that he should be _gainfully employed at all times_ and _living in decent circumstances_ if he wished to maintain all his visitation and other parental rights), the news that he might have gotten into trouble this summer was quite frightening.

Still, I had no idea whether it was true or, if it was, how it connected to his sudden decision to marry a British aristocrat's daughter. But this summer was supposed to have been a chance for him to enjoy his 'lost' youth or something like that. At least that's what I'd gathered from his last postcard, and from the fact that Edwin kept telling me that Derek had not had a day of freedom since Callum was born (which wasn't strictly true, but then, I'm not splitting hairs).

'What else did my mother say?' I was having trouble believing that the family had kept something as momentous as this from me; but then again, I had been _very busy_ writing my book all summer, and I was still recovering from a series of depressing events (which obviously being Casey I will have to tell you about sooner or later) and they had evidently not wanted to add to my worries.

'Hmm. Are you sure you want to hear this?' She was swirling her cocktail stick and her ready smiles had evaporated.

'Just tell me, Shuli.'

'The first time Nora and George heard about his wedding was this gilt-edged card that arrived at George's office announcing that the reception was being held the following day at a village hotel near where they knew Derek was staying. It wasn't signed by Derek or anything, so they would have thought it was a big joke, except…'

'What? For goodness sake, Shuli…'

'Except that there were two first class flight tickets inside the package with the card, in Nora and George's names, and a slip saying they were booked for two nights into that hotel.'

'WHAT!'

'Yes. Tell me about it. The Salter-Kresses are seriously wealthy then, just in case we had any doubts.'

But I was more shocked by my family's reticence; the money issue seemed irrelevant. Of course they were rich! Hadn't I just been shopping yesterday with Theodora? But my mom… I thought she'd have told me.

'They never told me.' I was beginning to feel hurt and humiliated all over again.

'Well, babe, don't fret too much. Nora and George didn't go, of course, because it was such short notice and because they were so stunned. But I think Nora said that Abby went…'

'She _did_?' I was beginning to feel dizzy. So Derek's mother had actually taken herself off all the way to England at virtually no notice to attend her son's wedding. That surprised me. She wasn't usually particularly sentimental. And Derek hadn't mentioned a word of it. In fact, the thing that cut almost as much as the wedding itself was that he had sent invitations to the others, but left me out.

Much as my reason screamed at me that it would have been a thousand times more dreadful to watch Derek happily tying the knot in front of three hundred strangers, than to hear of it as I did in the privacy of my own small apartment, vanity or pride or both suggested that he hadn't even mentioned me to his in-laws and that's why I wasn't on the guest list. Was he ashamed of me? Of us?

'Nora said she thought that Abby was working in the UK at the time anyway, on some Professorship, and so happened to be there.'

'Oh.' I drank all of my drink as fast as I could, the ice scoring my wretched throat. Shuli took my left hand and stroked it comfortingly.

A drunken scuffle broke out at a bar across the street and distracted her for a moment, and when she looked back, I was firmly in command of my feelings again. 'Well, thanks. I guess. You found out a lot from the family.' I tried not to sound bitter.

'I haven't finished.'

'There's more?'

She must have heard the desperation in my voice, because suddenly she pulled me to my feet and said, 'It'll keep. Now, you're coming with me, young lady. Marcel and I are having dinner with a Spanish friend of his, Joachim. We agreed that you would join us.'

'You did?' I smiled at her barely concealed attempts to get me to date again. 'Well, you reckoned without me.'

'Oh, Casey! Please come.'

'Nope. I've had enough excitement for one day. I'm going home to sleep.'

'No moping about Derek, right?'

'No moping…' I said, dejectedly. And just as I spoke, I saw Derek and Theodora and Callum walking towards us along the street.

She was dressed to perfection as always in a pair of beige slacks and a white silk shirt with pearls glowing at her ears and throat. I looked down at my own cotton dress and sandals, feeling decidedly casual.

Derek had Callum's hand firmly in his and they were talking animatedly about something, Callum bouncing on his toes as he spoke. Both of them seemed to be turning to Theodora from time to time, as if to include her in the discussion. She, however, was looking glummer than I'd seen in the past few days and her frown emphasised the hard lines around her eyes and mouth.

Her clear dissatisfaction only emphasised Derek's casual charm and Callum's ebullience even further.

I wondered what they were discussing, but knowing them, it was likely to be sport or computers.

I pinched Shuli's hand, and pointed. She stared, and then her mouth dropped open and her shawl fell off her shoulders in a most unladylike manner.

'That… that… that's her?'

I nodded, and then we both ducked our heads so that they would pass without seeing us. I was longing to keep looking, just so that I could keep my eyes on my beloved boys for as long as possible, but good sense dictated that a meeting now would be the last straw for us all.

'You know what…' I trailed off, looking at their retreating backs. I was glad I hadn't asked her to tell me everything else she'd found out from the family. I might have been talking about them when he walked past and that would have been impossibly embarrassing. Whatever gory details Shuli had gathered, they would keep for another time.

'What?'

'I think I _will _come and have dinner with Joachim and you and Marcel, after all. It's still the vacation and I do need to eat.' (I'd barely swallowed any of those tasty little morsels this afternoon, so weirded out did I feel by Derek's new housekeeping arrangements.)

'Good girl, Casey! Joachim's absolutely stunning, you know.'

'And you think I should care about this _because_…?'

'Because you're as shallow as the next woman, Casey, if the truth be known, and a pair of fine eyes on a man does more for you than you let on! Besides, if I tell you that Joachim's also fairly high up in an academic publishing company in Europe, you might start obsessing about work, and that just wouldn't be right.' She smiled at me in her usual engaging way.

And so, heart beating exceptionally fast, either because of our friendly banter or because of the alcohol or, perhaps, because I'd just seen my stepbrother unexpectedly and it had brought back memories of his understated but strangely passionate caress that afternoon, I followed Shuli towards one of the best restaurants in Vieux Montreal.

And tomorrow, of course, I would see Callum again, and despite my grown-up reservations about interfering in Derek's life, he and I would begin work on his plan…

**Review and tell me if it's getting more complicated than ever... but I do promise I at least know where it is going, slowly but surely, and that there is happiness in waiting in the wings...**


	10. Other Men

**I don't own LwD - sometimes I feel as if it owns me, but hey, it should be so lucky!**

_When we last left Casey, she was being dragged off to dinner by her friend, and had just heard a bunch of strange stuff about Derek's marriage and his stay in England, which Shuli had found out from Nora._

**Chapter Ten - Other Men**

Midnight found me pacing furiously up and down my apartment, from one set of French doors to another (yes, I am lucky enough to have light streaming in during the summer and balconies on both sides of my living room). The events of the evening had been so … so... unexpected. I was still trembling, trying to sort it all out.

My first surprise had been Joachim. He was utterly different than Shuli had led me to believe. She'd said he was "gorgeous" or some such thing. Well, I didn't think he was, at least at first, despite his handsome grey eyes. In fact I couldn't get over the contrast with Derek, whom, you will recall, Shuli and I had just seen strolling by so nonchalantly on St. Dennis with Callum (and new wife in tow).

Joachim's hair was blond, but cropped so short he might as well not have had any. His face was thin and tanned, his forehead high and somehow exuding intelligence. His laugh was hearty; his aftershave expensive.

I wanted to hate him; but I couldn't.

If I had any doubts that Shuli thought that this was a date, then these were dispelled when she and Marcel got up to dance to some old romantic tune, leaving Joachim and me alone at the table making small talk. I asked about his work. He asked if I was married. I asked about his family. He asked if I would like to go to bed with him.

When I blushed madly and said, 'But I don't even know you… we only just met?' with a sort of embarrassed trying-to-save-his-feelings-and-mine lilt to my voice, he took this somehow as a kind of good sign, and leaned forward and kissed me, right on the lips.

He tasted of cigarettes and raspberries. I almost laughed.

Because I was a little drunk, and because I didn't want to offend Marcel, I just went with the flow and allowed Joachim to kiss me, all kinds of random thoughts speeding through my brain as he did so: my eyes open; his closed.

When he opened his eyes and pulled back, straightening himself in his seat, he gave a wry smile to see my eyes already open.

'Why, Casey! I just _didn't do it for you_, as they say in Canada? Okay, don't answer that, what bad manners of me to make you respond. But you can't blame me for trying. I like you very much. You are thinking of some other fellow! This is always the way, no?'

It was my turn to smile. First he embarrasses me totally; then he puts me at my ease.

Shuli and Marcel were still dancing and no way about to come to my aid.

So, oddly, I ended up telling him about Derek. All about Derek and then, since I'd started, I went on and told him about my marriage as well. My unhappy little secret, as Shuli calls it. And this man, Joachim, this almost complete stranger from Spain who had met me, liked me, and then even kissed me more swiftly than I'd done anything with anyone in my entire life, well he just went and blew me away by saying, 'Your man, he still worships you, I'd bet my life on it.'

'But, but…', I stammered. 'You don't understand. He's not my man anymore. I'm not married any more. My husband went and…' He cut me off.

'Shh. Casey. We won't speak of _that_ man. He _never_ was _your_ man. I speak of your Derek Venturi. That's how you say his name, no? This woman – she's a passing thing. You are right not to give up hope.'

Had I told him I hadn't given up hope? No. In fact I'd said just the opposite. But my treacherous eyes, my shaking voice. He could tell everything.

I didn't say a word more. I had nothing left to say after pouring out all that to him.

I asked him to dance, and he agreed, and his arms around me felt more like those of a brother than Derek's had ever done.

Life is so pathetic sometimes.

--

But I'd done the unthinkable. I'd told someone about Derek, and about my brief and miserable marriage. A hundred trapped butterfly-wings flapped and flapped inside my throat, making me sick.

Up and down, I paced. Up and down. Soon Shuli was going to ring and yell at me to go to bed. Or she would come up and sit with me. I needed to calm down.

But I couldn't. All I could think about was that horrible time, nine years ago, when Derek was totally obsessed with his work and little son; and everyone thought I had moved on or didn't know how I'd felt about him in the first place, and I allowed a man called James – who seemed to be the opposite to everything Derek stood for – to make me his wife.

--

Two am. I toss and turn. I am desperate to get to sleep, knowing I will have to be at my most bouncy for Callum when we meet for lunch. But all I can feel is a monstrous sense of humiliation.

I'd met James the year I moved to Montreal as a graduate student. I was in one of his poetry classes at McGill and predictably I worshipped him a little bit already because I was so moved by his two near-flawless collections of poetry. _Twist_ was all about people in relationships destroying each other, while _Pearl_ was, on the surface, a collection about the uneasy balance of natural life. Mostly, however, it was about sex. Very grown-up. Something that I, still a virgin at twenty-three, was completely in awe of. You think I was crazy? Maybe so.

He had a reputation, of course, amongst the other students and I was quickly informed about his modus operandi, the places he wined and dined his women; the need to remain alert if he took me for a walk to look at the stars.

I wasn't used to such relaxed interaction with my tutors, and anyway, James never did try to seduce me in any of those ways.

He just recited poetry to me, endlessly, passionately, seductively. And when he dedicated one poem to me, and then another, including sayings of mine within the core of each, praising my work shamelessly, but so that no-one but I could guess it was aimed at me – I fancied myself a little in love.

Derek was struggling with his first teaching job (he'd quit hockey, of course, when Sandy and he came to an agreement, and trained to teach mathematics at which he was surprisingly excellent). And he was struggling with Callum, who was a tantrum-throwing two-year old. Granted, Derek only ever saw him on week-ends and for vacations or the odd day in-between if Sandy 'couldn't take it anymore'. But between his previous carefree existence and that level of commitment lay a ferocious sea of anger and determination.

Even I could barely believe the kind of man my wayward stepbrother had become.

When I called, in those days, he was either marking maths papers or about to take Callum to the park or about go to bed. He never seemed to have any fun and he certainly never seemed to have time for me anymore. Shuli was in England, doing her Masters at Cambridge. I missed them both sorely, but was too proud to complain. After all, this was grown-up little me.

When Callum had been tiny, there were many occasions on which Derek had just rung me up and asked me to come over. And I'd done it. Dropped everything and driven for six hours across the country to hold his puking baby – finding, in the process, Callum, the second love of my life.

But slowly Derek got used to the ways of his charming son – to the frightening fevers, the new teeth, the sudden delicious love affair with language. Slowly, his pride in being a father made him rely less and less on me and more on his instincts, or the internet or the girlfriend of the day.

Occasionally, in those days, I still had the pleasure of being home with Mom and George when he brought Callum for a week's holiday. But then he was exhausted, sleeping a lot and the rest of the time out drinking or playing hockey as if he needed to live a lifetime in that particular week, and it was left to Emily Davis and me and Marti to play the proud aunties. Derek never brought a girlfriend home and I never asked. We never spoke of our night in the tent.

So, James with his swooning voice and his erudition was like the antithesis of everything Derek had been and had become.

I didn't know what was happening to me until I heard my classmates whispering that I was next for the bedding block. Then I was embarrassed and scared and decided to take things easy for a while with James. My sense of self-preservation kicked in, and I started cutting his classes. I had no-one to talk to and workaholism only got me so far through each day, but I felt I was doing the right thing. I'd certainly hated being gossiped about. I went to the graduate school and asked to be removed from James' class. The kindly old secretary was shocked when she saw the amazing grades I'd been getting for my work.

I tried to walk away.

How was I to know that I was the first and only woman who had ever done that – withdrawn just before the great man made his final move?

He turned up at my tiny bed-sit just three weeks after I quit his class, bunches of flowers of every hue in his arms and a bottle of expensive wine. It was winter, and snowing everywhere, so I let him in. But I stood there, seriously, with my arms folded across my chest, intending for him to leave as soon as possible, saying the most Caseyish things I could think of in that compassionate tone of voice that had almost killed Max with frustration all those years ago. And that's when James had dropped down onto one knee, and softly, staring into my face, recited a sonnet I particularly adore. I barely understood how or when, but I must have stretched out my hand to accept the ring he proffered.

He was forty-six. I was twenty-three. Neither of us had been married before.

My parents, yes – both of them – were stunned and furious. Dad hated James on sight. Mom just kept trying to talk me out of it. Lizzie was sympathetic, but too caught up in her own first year at university.

Finally, only Shuli (who flew back specially) and Derek – stony-faced and with a puzzled-looking Callum clinging to his hand, came to our pathetic little registry ceremony. I was too embarrassed to ask why no-one came from James' family.

There was a meal, but I can't bear to think about it; the violins and orange-blossoms and champagne mingling in my head with the sound of Derek's silent but completely palpable misery.

James was very talkative and affable, touching my thigh under the table and making me feel, for all the world, as if I'd just given away my life for no good reason.

Afterwards, he went to pay the bill, and we all stood around in the snow looking at each other a little bleakly before Derek and Callum drove Shuli to the airport and James drove me back to his untidy rooms and took me to bed.

--

Six months later, it was over and I was driving myself, and what little I had left of my sanity, back to London.

You will understand me when I say that the first night James took me home was one of the only times that I actually spent the night _with_ my husband. He was a free spirit, after all, and the world was full of beauty – especially the beauty of other women.

I never asked him, but I assumed that marriage was just seduction by another name.

He'd sized me up and decided that a ring was the price he would pay for putting me on his outstandingly long list of conquests.

I realised with a sudden and ferocious pain that the girls who'd succumbed – or pretended to succumb – to James' charms without making him fall onto one knee and sign in a book were actually a lot more worldly and sensible than I was.

I had to wait a year to be free of him and that year couldn't pass swiftly enough.

Ah, now I can see you all shaking your pretty faces at me. I can see that you think I completely deserve all the grief Derek has heaped on me in the last few weeks – the surprise wedding, the wife, the lot. If I could do THAT, if I could betray my heart by marrying a complete jackass like James when Derek was still single, why should he think I still cared for him?

But, let me tell you, that is not how things work.

_You_ may get to judge me, Casey McDonald, for my ignorance and stupidity, and for trying to break away from the suffocating love I seem always to have felt for my stepbrother, with whom you so clearly think I should live till death do us part. But you will never get to judge me more harshly than I judge myself.

And strangely, in all the weeks and months following the separation and the eventual divorce eight years ago, no-one was a better friend to me than Derek, who never once allowed me to forget my stupidity and gullible naïveté, finding endless ways to shred my dignity, but who always, always made me laugh about it, instead of crying, and ended every _Casey-is-a-total-ass_ conversation with his arm warm around my shoulders and his plump little son snug in my lap.

Life holds so many secret blessings.

Suddenly I find myself falling asleep with a sense of hope beneath my tired eyelids.

**Come on, my faithful friends and kind reviewers, time to show yourselves and earn another chapter!**


	11. Grown Up Games

**I don't own LwD - maybe Santa will give me the show for Christmas? But actually, I much prefer your amazing comments, PMs and stories. This community has to be one of the highlights of 2008 for me. Thank you. And this time a special one for Lanter, who lent me a phrase for this chapter.**

**_When we left Casey last chapter she was re-living the nightmare of her awkward and unfulfilling marriage and dwelling on the blessings of Derek's constant friendship._**

**Chapter Eleven - Grown Up Games**

First it is night. Then, in the seeming space of seconds, it is day. I wonder if that's why they call it 'the speed of light...'

I am deep under my crisp sheets, snuggled against my extra-large pillow, dreaming oddly comforting dreams in my soft pyjamas. Then it is bright mid-morning and I am blinking at my billowing curtains, my head feeling concussed from late night indulgence, the fantasy smile turning into a panicked rush to the bathroom.

Late. I, Casey McDonald, am going to be late for Callum. And I'm never late. I may be _too late_. Yes. _Too late_ for the things that mean most in life…. Maybe. (Oh Casey, get over yourself, this is the wine from last night talking.) But LATE for an appointment? Never.

Derek will be dropping him over any minute now – so that, unbeknownst to him, we can spend the day concocting insufferable and hazardous de-Theodorisation plans, whilst indulging in everything from triple chocolate fudge sundaes to double pepperoni stuffed crust pizza. (Callum's perpetual thinness in recent years means that I'm prone to abandon my usual cautious healthy eating dictums in favour or all out calorific mayhem).

And while we eat and weave knightish webs of truth involving him, Derek's going to "check out" the new school where he'll be Head of Mathematics this fall. I feel nervous on his behalf.

--

I'm half way through my shower when the doorbell goes.

I towel off frantically, wrap myself in a bathrobe and make it to my bedroom. Then I hear the key in the lock (why I had given Derek one, I have no idea, but it seemed like a good idea six years ago when he helped move me and my considerable mountain of books into the apartment. That was the day he decided to write something to me on the flyleaf of every single book of mine while I was cooking us lunch. I only discovered slowly, over the next few weeks. By then he was long gone).

'Caaa-seeey?' Callum can't contain his excitement.

'I'm in here. The bedroom…NO! _Don't come in_!' I throw my weight against the bedroom door just in time (it doesn't have a latch). Okay. Now I can almost hear the two of them thinking how to have a little fun with me.

'Aren't you dressed, Case?' Derek sounds sombre, not like his usual self, which both reassures and upsets me. Then to his son, 'Move yourself, pal and let her get dressed.'

I feel Callum let go of the handle and I hear him shuffle back, moaning, 'Da-_ad_'. But he never disobeys when he knows his father is serious.

There's a pause.

Relieved, I let go of the doorknob and turn to get my clothes on, stomach churning anew at the thought of facing Derek in my apartment after all these awkward changes and last night's illuminating conversation with Joachim.

BAM! They both fall through into the room and on top of me, knocking me off balance and onto the bed where I collide, clumsily, with my nearest bedpost. At least I have tied my robe up, so my dignity is safe, but my wet hair falls out of its towel and splashes us all.

They are both hysterical with laughter.

'Gottcha!' They yell.

'Der-_ek!_' I scream. 'What if I'd been _naked_, you ridiculous idiot!'

'Yeah, that would really have scarred Callum for life, wouldn't it son?' Derek says casually as Callum giggles, 'She called you an idiot!'

But Derek's eyes… oh! How his eyes are holding mine, searching my features with the same hungry mixture of mockery, mischief and desire that used to light them back when we lived together; challenging me to... to do what? I'm never quite sure.

I rub my bruised shoulder. He looks sideways at me, muttering that he can rub it for me if I want him to. I stare him down. Then, stupid me, I start to blush.

Callum, predictably, is now ignoring us and sitting at my dressing table dipping his finger into my face cream, dropping little blobs of it on the mirror to see how they roll down. Sometimes he acts the same at eleven as he did at five. But I'm still cross with his father and have no time to take him on too.

'How can they let you _teach children_, let alone be in charge of a department! You're a total imbecile.' I grumble in Derek's direction. But their laughter is so infectious, so genuine, that I cannot hold back my own.

I feel a sudden rush of love for my mother, who saw right through all the external clutter to the heart of George and his dysfunctionally perfect little family.

'Ew, Callum! Did you just fart in my bedroom? _Get out!_'

I bundle them out and they go obediently this time. I shut the door again and hear the television go on.

Six minutes later I join them, wearing a knee-length dark blue summer top over faded jeans, and a pair of comfortable canvas shoes, my hair gathered in a clip but still damp across my bare shoulders. Without makeup as I am this morning, I look almost as I did at eighteen. I am not proud of this; just aware of it. Nostalgia plays a large enough role in Derek's and my life already, without our strangely Peter Pan looks as constant reminder.

They are lounging on my sofa watching a rerun of an episode of _Family Guy_ – a programme made, in my opinion, for idle student minds and frustrated cynical men having mid-life crises. Callum keeps laughing and watching, coyly glancing at his dad when there's a particularly rude exchange, but Derek's eyes rise towards me as if I exert a near-magnetic pull; and I feel he's willing me to look at him.

When I do, he mouths 'Sorry.'

I raise my eyebrows; shrug the shoulder that is slowly showing its bruise.

Nevertheless, I can't help feeling contented for a minute, watching the relaxed, proprietary way in which his legs are stretched across my tiny living room; and the fact that they've dug out biscuits from my cupboards and raided my fridge for soda and milk.

All the things about Derek that drove me so insane with annoyance when we were teenagers now leave me inarticulate with longing. Somewhere deep down I know that this is the complicated problem at the centre of so many women's lives, this mysterious attraction to men's most annoying habits when those men do not live with us. If I had known what being an adult would be like, I would have frozen time right there when we were seventeen, his laughter enveloping me, the ice cream in my hair. But then, I would never have known Callum.

As I step over Derek's legs on my way to the kitchen (I haven't had breakfast and my head is still throbbing from last night's wine), he reaches out and clasps my wrist, pulling me backwards till I am sitting awkwardly next to him.

'I'm sorry', he whispers again. 'Didn't realise you were so close to the door.'

He pulls me against him with one arm. Almost without thinking, he raises my wrist to his lips and brushes a kiss against the underside. I take this strangely erotic gesture as an apology; but perhaps it's something else.

The feeling is indescribable and I suppress a groan.

Callum glances at us, makes a silly face and goes back to his programme, where the character called Stewie (whom I find utterly diabolical and disgusting) is scoffing pancakes, salivating and making lascivious faces at someone's bosom.

'You aren't forgiven', I murmur.

I can feel Derek's breathing, his ribs, the sharp rhythm of his heartbeat beneath his t-shirt.

Suddenly, I want to hit him. Not some girly slap, but to really pound him with my fists till he aches all over the way I do.

I want to turn and press my mouth to his and put my arms behind his back and never let him go.

Why does he keep doing this?

He's married. I'm…. nothing to him except… kind of family.

He had years to ask me to be something else.

And of course, I had years to ask him. But it never seemed like the right moment, and I didn't trust myself enough after that wasted courage in the tent.

This sort of tension now is wrong, and confusing, and well nigh unbearable when it occurs in Callum's presence. He's only young, but he's a clever boy, used to reading people's emotions. He's known his father and me all his life, and has often questioned me about Derek's other girlfriends, watching carefully to see my reaction if he tells me of particularly amorous moments. But mostly, he's just seemed to enjoy being with both of us, to feast on our sparks and the chemistry we exude. It's never really mattered before, since I was single and technically Derek often was as well. Perhaps we got too comfortable. Now he's at an age when he's sure to sense the more than fraternal tenderness with which Derek sometimes touches me and I sometimes respond. Wrong. All wrong.

I wrench my voice out from the depths where it is hiding. 'Don't you have an appointment to go to at the school?'

Dropping my wrist, Derek gets up in one fluid move, ruffles Callum's hair and heads out of the room.

But then, just before the front door slams, I hear him call, 'Casey?'

So, as always, I jump up and go to the hallway where he's now standing, half in and half out of my apartment.

'D'you want your key back?' He asks gruffly.

I shake my head, unable to speak, tears rising in my throat.

'Good.' He says, letting out a breath that I didn't know he was holding. 'See you in the evening, then... and Spacey - don't lose my little boy.' Then he's gone.

--

A short walk, two aspirins and an hour later, Callum and I are excitedly discussing fossils, flora and fauna as we queue to look at a special exhibit in the Biodome.

Three hours, four aspirins and a bus-ride later, we are in Park Mont Royal, having a picnic (our second lunch), feeding several oversize squirrels, and making serious plans as he fills me in on his observations from the last twenty-four hours and hands over the 'loot' – a letter from none other than Daddy Salter-Kress, addressed to Derek – which Callum has 'borrowed' from Derek's desk. He talks non-stop as usual.

'Dad always says that I should "stop depending on others to get me stuff that I want – I'm old enough to be independent and at my age he was looking after a baby sister". Yeah, right. So I just went in and took it while he was getting something for Theodora. She's sick, he says, with a headache and staying in bed all day. But you know I did see three empty wine bottles in the bin this morning – perhaps she got drunk after I went to bed – wouldn't that be funny if she married dad to get over some drinking problem!' Ouch. I raise my eyebrows at this conjecture and shake my head.

'Improbable, my dear Watson. Now tell me about the letter. When did it arrive?'

'I don't think Dad's even replied to this letter yet, since it only came this morning. I guess that means we'll have to put it back before he notices.' He stops for air and to see if I can reassure him about getting it back to its rightful owner. I nod. I am too excited to indulge in my usual stern lecture on taking things that don't belong to you, and this letter, which I've been scanning as Callum talks, is very intriguing.

'Come on', I say to Callum, who has finished his icecream finally, 'Let's go show this to Shuli and see what she can make of it.' I reach down my hand and pull him to his feet.

'Yay!' He replies. Then in a wheedling voice, 'Don't tell her you gave me ice-cream, okay? Maybe she'll treat us to some more.'

'Callum, you crazy kid! I'm the one that knows you had ice-cream already and I'm saying a big fat NO to another one…' But we're both grinning like fools forty minutes later when Shuli finally comes out of her home-office and says, 'Oh I'm just finishing up for the day, d'you guys want to go grab an ice-cream? This heat is unbearable!'

And then her eyes go wide in surprise when I wave the Salter-Kress letter under her nose. She reads it quickly, and shudders.

'I think it's time I told you the stuff I left out yesterday', she hisses to me, 'but not in front of junior.'

Meanwhile Callum can't contain himself any longer. 'Why're you guys whispering? What d'you think dad did in England, Aunt Shuli? Why's this old man writing to him like this? Casey? It's clear he was arrested, right? What d'you think he did? Oh, I wonder if he's a spy!'

We're still standing on the sidewalk just outside Shuli's and my apartments, and all three of us jump when a cool voice says, 'You talkin' about me?'

**Duh! Sorry for ending it there. My boy now has chicken-pox and once again writing long chapters is fraught with difficulty. But I know how patient you are and I will be forgiven! More 'evidence' in the next chapter. **


	12. The Deal

**I don't own the show. Thanks again for all the lovely feedback and Happy New Year all of you!**

**Chapter Twelve - The Deal**

'Talking about me?'

We were all startled, glancing hurriedly at each other, guiltily, wondering what or how much Derek had heard.

But Shuli rose to the occasion, hugged him 'Hello', swiftly pushed us all in the direction of ice-cream and covered our embarrassment with gossip while I slipped the letter into my pocket, fingering its thick creamy folds.

Yes, the letter, with its barely hidden undercurrent of hostility and its openly threatening finale. You want to know what was in it? Well, be my guest.

--

_P. Salter-Kress_

_Holscombe Manor,_

_Whitney,_

_Oxfordshire_

_Great Britain_

_25__th__ August 2020_

_Young man__**,**_

_I take the liberty of writing to you now that you have had a chance to get settled with my little Theodora. A week was what you requested when we spoke last, and despite my anxieties about the life to which you have taken our beloved daughter, and the pressing concerns of my dear wife, I have held to my side of the bargain: after obtaining all your release papers, and making sure the wedding ceremony was conducted properly and the reception held with befitting pomp, I have not interfered. _

_But now I must question you, I must have reassurance on every matter that concerns our daughter. You know that Dora is not used to housekeeping, that she has been very much sheltered in her life with us. We hope that you will attempt to keep her happy and at the standard to which she has become accustomed. We hope that you will find her the best servants, the best doctors, the best accommodation that money can buy, and that you will not force her to socialise with anyone of a station in life far inferior to her own. She cannot abide toadies and children. Make sure that her contact with your son is minimal. _

_We are aware that this may not be to your taste, given your apparently bohemian nature and the commonness of your own upbringing. But it is part of the terms of our agreement nonetheless and you are bound by your bond to honour this. _

_Need I remind you about the consequences of failing to abide by the agreement we so propitiously reached? In the eyes of the British law and your own family, you may be a free man as I write but I hope I do not have to spell out for you the potential outcome of abusing my trust. You have a child. And so I will quote back at you the words you so carelessly let fall to my wife, 'A father will do anything to protect his child.' Indeed, young man, he will._

_Given what I know of your character, I am not particularly concerned by your health and happiness. But since my Theodora's life is now linked to yours, I end with reluctant wishes for your continued success at keeping her happy. _

_Peter Salter-Kress._

All through our frustratingly cheery evening together I mulled and mulled over the meaning of all the threats and innuendoes in Papa Salter-Kress' letter, returning every time to the penultimate paragraph in which, I felt, he was urging Derek to consider his own son's happiness before doing anything to upset Theodora. An eye for an eye (or rather, a child for a child) the man seemed to imply. I shivered with fear.

_--_

Derek seemed reluctant to leave us; he insisted, in fact, that Theodora needed time to herself, and accompanied Shuli, Callum and me for icecream. Later, he lounged in front of my television as I cooked them all dinner.

Shuli teased Derek about his new job and he teased her about Marcel's aunt, saying they were now from the same family and she would have to quit her old wardrobe in favour of pastel pant-suits. She laughed so loud the windows rattled and threw a dishcloth at him. Nothing was new there, then.

Callum kept darting me panicked looks – and finally dragged me into the bathroom to confer anxiously about how he was to return the stolen missive now that his father had joined us before we'd made a plan or copied the letter. And indeed, I too had been thumping my brains to think how to prevent the little boy from being discovered in this small deception.

Shuli pinched my arm as we chopped onions side-by-side and murmured, 'I'm really worried about this wife of his. She sounds like a total nightmare – not that I didn't believe you or anything! How is he going to put up with stuff like that? It's just not in his nature. And then she's clearly going to go running to Daddy…I didn't tell you this because we didn't get a chance last night, but Nora warned me not to tell you…'

'What?' I hissed. 'For goodness sake, Shu, just go on and tell me!'

'Shush! Your mom said she wasn't quite sure, but she thought Derek had rung his father a few days before the wedding and asked for money or at least for the promise of it. So much money that George would have had to sell not only the house but also his partnership in order to get it. He thought about it, but said No, Nora thinks. But as I said, she didn't want you to know. She's quite right too, Casey. Don't go thinking this is all some innocent prank and running to the rescue. It sounds very complicated, and you were never impartial when it came to Derek if my memory is anything to go by. What if he did something really bad this time? If you start to uncover something, you will have no choice but to follow it through. At least make sure Callum doesn't get hurt in the process.'

I was aware that in her unsubtle way Shuli had just given me good advice. Find out all the facts before you do anything. I was also aware of great fear when I heard that George had yet another reason to distrust his eldest son.

But nothing weighed so heavily on my heart as my certainty that Derek had somehow, unwittingly or foolishly, alone on his jaunt to Europe and forgetting his responsibilities for a brief time, allowed this proud and powerful Salter-Kress man to get a hold over him which might affect Callum.

--

One am, Sunday morning. The very last day of August 2020. Everything is quiet.

Playing Balderdash – a game where you try to fool all your opponents into believing that the meaning you have attributed to a word or the storyline you have constructed for a film title is indeed the one and only real one – Shuli has beaten us all. We have laughed ourselves into a stupor – at words like Cocklejam (which Derek said was a liquefied Rooster, spread on bread) and Sphincter (which I insisted was another name for an _old maid_ and Derek totally believed…).

Callum has fallen asleep curled on his side on two oversize cushions beside my bed. Finally. It took long enough to persuade him to leave the adults to their wine.

Shuli has tiptoed her way down to her apartment, mouthing, 'Goodnight' at us as she leaves and managing to scowl at me at the same time, warning, warning, warning. Don't let down your guard. Don't do something foolish that you will regret. Whatever you suspect, he is married to her.

Shuli knows me so well.

Derek and I are on the couch, mock-relaxed, his arm across the back, almost but not quite touching my shoulders, my thigh brushing his.

Just before he rises to collect his sleeping son, we just stare at each other. I wonder what he is thinking, hoping against hope that he will tell me about his troubles so that I can quit snooping around and get down to what I always used to think I did best: sorting things out in someone else's life.

Then he says, 'I should go.' And I nod. But he still doesn't leave. Instead he reaches out and takes my hand, holds it to his cheek for a few seconds.

'Do you want to …like… talk, sometime?' He asks.

'That would be good,' I say, savouring the feel of the stubble on his face, the warmth of his hand on the back of mine, but most of all his uncharacteristic offer of conversation. The love is flowing between us now, unstaunched, undisguised.

Too tired, perhaps, for subterfuge, I whisper, 'Will you call me?'

But he doesn't answer, just gives me back my hand and wearily rises to carry Callum back home, finally to bed, despite my offer to keep him overnight.


	13. It Gets Worse

**I own none of LwD as usual. I've missed you and I've missed writing. Nice to be back and again, thank you so much for all the kind feedback and nice PMs after the last chapter.**

**Chapter Twelve - It Gets Worse**

After Derek carried Callum home, I fell into the deepest, most satisfying sleep I'd had in days only to be woken jerkily by the sound of my cell phone ringing. It was still semi-dark, so I stumbled out of bed and tried to find it by touch, knocking over one of my smaller potted plants and finally locating the glowing, buzzing object, which had buzzed its way off the bedside table and onto the floor.

'Hello', I coughed. I'd had four hours sleep.

'Caseeey – you have to help me!'

'What is it, my darling?' Callum's voice was so heavy with anxiety that I almost shouted my question.

'Shhh! Don't shout. Casey, I left Dad's letter with you. What shall I do? He's going to wake up any minute now and I'm gonna' get busted. And so are you… Think of something.' His voice was a whisper but managed to convey all the urgency of the situation. I looked at my watch – a quarter past six.

'Hold tight, buddy. I'll be round with the letter in ten minutes. Your dad isn't going to be up at this unearthly hour on a Sunday, so try to calm down and get ready to open the door for me. Okay?'

'Okay, Casey. But hurry.'

'I will, my pet.' I made sure he'd hung up before I switched off my phone. I was in jogging shorts and a t-shirt inside of thirty seconds, with the letter stowed snugly in my pocket. A cold dawn breeze and a few surprised dawn birds greeted me when my feet hit the sidewalk.

An hour later, I was back in bed, trying to get back to sleep. It was Sunday after all. I should have been able to relax.

I'd dropped off the letter, had a whispered conversation with Callum outside the front door and told him to go back to bed after replacing the letter on Derek's desk.

The dark circles around his eyes might not be a matter of comment for his father, but Sandy was picking him up that afternoon to drive him back to Quebec city in time for school and she would certainly wonder why her son had been getting so little sleep. I didn't want her to have an argument with Derek in front of Theodora. I didn't want anyone asking questions. I didn't want Derek to suspect Callum. What I wanted was…

Derek.

Argh! I had a sudden flash of his eyes and hands, and the lingering feel of his fingertips on my cheek. I'd wanted ALL of him, the strong arms and the quirked eye-brows and the teasing lips and the boy I remembered and the man he was for the rest of our lives. And now - all I would ever get were these absolutely contained but sensual gestures, so subtle that to anyone else they would look like the family affection we had failed to mime so long ago.

Did he think I was made of ice? All these years, I'd waited. I should just quit my job, sell my apartment and disappear. Somewhere far away from him and all the trouble he brought me.

Beset by bitterness, I tossed and turned. Finally, around eight, I managed to doze off and that's when the nightmare engulfed me.

--

When Callum was nearly three - and believe me, he was chubby, cute and incredibly energetic - Derek and I took him to 'Hoopland' in Toronto. It was one of those places that had ceiling-high soft play areas cordoned off with hanging curtains of tattered plastic, bright colourful balls galore and a screaming mass of parents, nannies and children all drinking soda, eating fries or sliding and slipping up and down mountains of plastic-covered foam-rubber.

Derek took one look and said, 'Oh No! We're NOT going in there!' Shaking his tousled hair at me, giving me THAT LOOK.

But by the time I'd decided he was right, Callum had found a tiny friend, a pig-tailed tomboy about a year older than him, and they were off, laughing crazily and throwing small plastic balls at each other in a pit full of plastic balls.

He'd looked so happy.

We'd sighed and seated ourselves ringside, to get the best possible view of the kids. (Little girl's mother turned out to have two others, both under four, and was somewhat preoccupied with feeding her baby.)

We bought coffee and cookies; then orangeade and a cup cake. Derek started to text someone on his mobile, then thought better of it and just stared moodily at me, flicking crumbs from the table in my direction.

Callum sweated and ran and panted and giggled as he slipped under and over the swinging plastic barriers, up and down rubber ladders, following his new friend round and round the huge in-door play arena.

We were meeting up after a gap of three months. I was studying for my Masters and had tried to work without obsessing about Derek. I hardly knew what he was doing any more. I wanted to talk, but there was almost too much to say. So I kept quiet. Then he told me that Sandy had decided to leave Toronto with Callum. So he was going to have to move and leave the school where he'd just got a job. It was going to be the pattern of the next few years of his life and he was less than pleased.

'First I give up all my bloody prospects in hockey for her, and get a steady job, and now she wants to make something of herself and I'm supposed to just drop it all, no please or thank you, and go zooming round the country after her. It stinks.'

Derek was on a roll now and needed to vent about Sandy and her selfish decision to move.

Callum galloped past and I winked at him, ignoring his father. I noticed he'd lost his socks but didn't say anything.

Then I turned and gave Derek warm sympathy and plenty of cookies.

Finally, he took my hand and laced his fingers through mine, saying that at least she might move them closer to me - already up in Montreal by then - so that we'd get to see more of each other. I muttered that then I needed to move as well so we could stay the same distance away, because I needed to see more of them like I needed a hole in the head. Soon we were joking and teasing like we always used to; he actually smiled, and I actually felt joyous and childishly pleased. I hadn't yet met James, all that misery was still to come, and Derek was the shining centre of my universe.

And then it hit us.

We'd taken our eyes off the kids – for at least two minutes, and neither of us had been paying attention.

As if with one breath, we both jumped up and went to look in opposite directions, calling out to Callum.

The next ten minutes passed in a blur of hysteria. By minute three, we were shrieking Callum's name, and the little girl's mother was weeping and calling softly to her daughter. The play-scheme staff were talking to each other on little radios and asking us for descriptions of Callum, his clothing, particularly, how tall he was.

My knees had gone weak; yet, compared to Derek, I was calm. I bit my lip until it split. Then, methodically, I went from area to area, checking in all the darkest corners, climbing all the equipment, the bouncy castles, the slides, going through into hoops and tunnels that only toddlers could crawl.

That was how I spotted them. Right up at the top of the largest of the slides, where only eight and nine year olds were supposed to go. They were too far above to hear us, but I could tell that Callum was distressed. I hardly remember now what route I took, but I didn't listen to the staff telling me not to, I just swung myself up from place to place until I was with the little boy and girl, then I hugged them both and brought them down.

Derek didn't let go of Callum for the rest of the day, and the little girl's mom was pathetically grateful. We didn't discuss what had happened, and we didn't go to soft play ever again.

In my nightmare, it was endlessly that minute, the one when we realised that Callum was missing and I could feel Derek staring at me, in his eyes the accusation that I had made him forget his son, that it was me, Casey McDonald, who had distracted him so much, usurped his mind and his heart so thoroughly, that we had lost his little boy.

The double pain (of guilt and distress) was so excruciating that I felt it tingling in the tips of my fingers, even eight years later, as I slept in my comfy bed.

--

Forcing myself awake, I realised that I'd only ever had this terrible dream when I was worried that Derek might be separated from Callum.

Four times in all, though the last eight years, I'd had it. Usually when Derek was on the verge of refusing to follow Sandy somewhere, or when she was murmuring about leaving Canada for good. Each time, it was my intervention which had finally averted any disaster, changed Sandy's mind, calmed Derek down, brought about reconciliation. But today I felt different: powerless. This time, the nightmare didn't recede, things were far more serious and might be past changing.

I'm not, in general, a superstitious person. But this time, despite the pretty September sunlight streaming through my windows, the birds calling from tree to tree, the lovely breeze, I could not shake off the night's worries.

If Derek didn't call me soon and have that promised conversation, I was going to have to take matters into my own hands. And that meant I be taking two trips – one to London, Ontario, to gather information from George, and another much longer one to a posh Estate across the ocean in green middle England. Casey McDonald does not give up on people she loves.

**I just realised that nothing good ever seems to happen to this pair without something equally awful coming along to spoil it! I'm following some strange pattern. Please do review and say how it's going for you! Your words are always much appreciated, and new readers, welcome.**


	14. Payback

**I don't own LwD. Sorry for being a little slack with the postings - I'm traveling all over for work and often don't have internet access. But I still love all your comments, lovely readers, and I hope this chapter makes some of you happy. Thanks to all those who have favourited, and sorry for not responding sooner - you are very generous.**

**Chapter Thirteen: Payback**

So. I, Casey McDonald, waited. Derek had asked me if I wanted to talk. Stars had shone brighter for me as he spoke, and little hamster wheels had started to turn in my brain. And, of course, I'd said 'yes'. I'd said 'phone me'.

I'm Casey. Waiting doesn't come easy, as you know. But for Derek – I could wait. I can and I do wait.

Sandy picked up Callum that Sunday – I know because she called me from the car out of the blue on her way back to Quebec City with Callum by her side to bitch about Derek's foul-tempered 'new squeeze' and her 'pseudo-aristocratic' airs. I guessed Derek hadn't told her it was wedded bliss this time. I guess he couldn't face the storm that particular revelation might cause. (And, apparently, Theodora had expressed her displeasure at Sandy's 'poor time-keeping' out loud.)

Monday passed as my hand hovered over the phone and it did not ring. I steeled myself to wait patiently, and then a week had suddenly slipped by.

The breeze was light, the vines in bloom. Montreal shone out across the water every evening and glowed with blossoms and fall leaves in the daylight.

The comedy festival came and went.

Schools opened and the sidewalks were awash in shiny-faced kids. Chilling, laughing, flirting, causing all kinds of trouble to the pedestrians.

Students trickled back to the city, and although I wasn't teaching a class for some weeks yet, my stomach felt heavy with nerves and foreboding.

Derek must have started his new job. I was longing to know how the first week had gone, what his new department was like and whether he was going to like living in Montreal.

But…

He didn't call. (Thankfully, neither did Theodora von Scary-Dad, after the first time I hid against the wall in my hallway and allowed her to call through the letter box 'Yoohoo, Casey? Derek said you NEVER go out on a Tuesday evening! I thought we could visit the opera – I have tickets. Where are you? How very odd your building smells…'.)

Finally, I couldn't bring myself to walk past their apartment one single more time. The humiliation was crushing. Shuli was out of town with Marcel and I missed her like crazy.

You're probably feeling a little sorry for me by now, and quite annoyed too: as a girl, I didn't used to be so easily set aside. I was shriller. More sure of myself. That Casey, the one you thought you knew really well, she would have done something by now, to provoke Derek, to prove to him that she wouldn't just wait around on false promises. She would most likely have been on a date with a most unsuitable guy, and Derek would have come rushing back, regardless of his marital status, pounding on her door in case she was getting too intimate with another man and not him. But ten years and some emotional scars later, I felt somehow as if I'd lost the will to play those teenage games.

Stupid man, I loved him so completely that there were no options left. I knew it and he knew it.

So. Instead I bought myself two tickets. One to London, Ontario, the other to London, UK. And Monday, the eighth of September 2020 saw me on a crowded aeroplane, heading home, but not to stay.

--

Mom was surprised to see me. I found her alone in our now rather shabby old house, working on a project of some sort.

There was fabric and pieces of paper all over the dining table and she seemed to have a heavy cold. Despite this, she rushed around removing boxes of books and other odds and ends from my old room, brewing tea, until I told her I wasn't staying.

I didn't waste any time on excuses. I needed her to tell me everything she knew about Derek's adventures in England, and when I asked, her eyes went wide with dismay as if she had never expected me to ask her. I knew I'd hit pay dirt.

She didn't stop talking for the next twenty-five minutes, and what she told me – about Derek and the mess he'd gotten himself into out in England at some music festival during a police-raid, a midnight bust, a pretty, scantily dressed 'helpless' woman caught carrying drugs ('Oh, Derek, just for a friend, I'd never do drugs') and Derek's utterly asinine agreement to help her by pretending they belonged to him (because he seriously thought that a foreign citizen would be safer with the British police?) which then landed him in a local holding cell minus his passport and with the threat of a nine-month sentence for possession. The story proceeded on its dismal course, and I learned all about the girl's 'gratitude' and her father's – the local magistrate's – refusal to believe a word Derek said and about his daughter's not so subtle entrapment of my overconfident stepbrother.

It all made me cry like a baby and then slam my palm against my head in anger several dozen times.

How could he have been so naïve? How could he have allowed himself to get involved with someone like her? Whatever issues she had with her upstanding local landowner daddy, clearly Derek hadn't seen any of it coming. Had simply seen a poor little rich girl, and thought he could 'save' her. Always the show-off, my Derek. Always thought he was too smart to get in trouble. Perhaps a decade of teaching teenagers had dulled his instincts. Well, this time he was well and truly caught because, guess what? There was no-one there watching his back. No Sam, no Ralph, No Callum, no Casey.

My mother didn't know all the details, of course, but my imagination supplied just the right number. What she couldn't tell me was exactly how much Theodora's father had 'paid' as a bond to get Derek his passport and right to travel back. Whatever it was, I was going to find out, because on that bond depended Derek's ability to be near his son.

By the time George came moaning through the door at twenty-minutes past seven (apparently summer colds are worse than winter ones), I was waiting for my cab to Toronto airport.

I tried not to let him breathe on me as we hugged. I was a woman on a mission.

**Oooh, come on and review!**


	15. Dreaming

**I don't own LWD. I'm longing to be reading more of yours and writing more of this story but just completely inundated at work! So, little by little will have to do.**

_When we last left Casey, she was sliding past a sneezy George at the door, heading for the airport after hearing Nora's version of Derek's troubles...._

**Chapter Fourteen - Dreaming**

I woke with a headache, the plane window all fogged up from my breathing and an irate looking middle-aged man leaning away from me on the aisle side. My bladder was bursting, so I was forced to ask him in my politest voice if I could get past him to use the washroom. He sighed, grumpily but got out of his seat to allow me passage.

Ten minutes later I was back in my seat. I had no inclination to make conversation with my neighbour, whose sour looks seemed to bode ill for this trip to England, on which I had so recklessly embarked not five hours earlier; so I pulled down the shutter on my window and leaned against it, trying to recapture the dream from which I had awoken.

Half the dream had consisted of an event which had, in actual fact, occurred the summer after our graduation, before we left London for our respective universities. It was a mere nothing, an afternoon spent serenely beneath an apple tree in Sam's garden, with Derek at my feet, annoying the hell out of me – or so he thought. Sam was minding the food, as his father had been called away on some urgent business, and the rest of our friends were in the pool. But I had a cold, and didn't feel like swimming. And, for some odd reason, Derek had decided to join me. In memory, as in my dream, Derek was lying on his back chewing on a grass-stem or something equally vile, and tickling the soles of my feet whenever I looked about to fall asleep.

At this point, my dream diverged from the reality in a way that would have astonished all the guests and our families, but that will not shock you in the least, dear readers, knowing me as you do, for in resisting the annoyance of tickled feet I somehow managed to coax my step brother into a wrestling match, and thence into my arms. Where, dream world being what it is, he stayed for several hours, simply staring into my eyes, and making dreamy pouting faces and occasionally kissing my eyelids… I leave the rest to your imagination.

In reality, that day had ended in quiet tension, Derek and I side by side but not speaking, me so choked up – ostensibly by my cold, but really at our imminent separation – that I could barely swallow my corn and mash; Derek, for some unknown reason, avoiding a delightfully sun-tanned girl in a bikini while trying to set her up with Ralph. Go figure.

I turned my brain to the more pressing task of deciding what I was going to do once I got to England, and how I would handle the situation with Thorny Salter-Kress's parents. I was afraid, but not unduly so. I was nervous, but I think I had reason to be. I was also very, very angry, although my anger had cooled a little since the plane took off.

By the time I'd reached the airport, mulling over my mother's dreadful recital and Derek's absurd chivalry towards a woman who proved anything but worthy – so he'd thought she couldn't afford to be 'caught' with _her own drugs on her person_ whereas he (a teacher and a father of a gorgeous kid) could? – I was all set to explode with irritation. If Salter-Kress or his daughter had crossed my path, I would have bitten their heads off. Yap! Just like that.

But a further mystery needed to be solved. Theodora's father seemed as little enamoured of Derek as I was of his daughter.

So, why on earth had Derek agreed to the marriage? Why had it even been suggested and how was it tied to the bargain about the bail money and the bond? Could it be that Theodora had developed a crush on her saviour and really fancied herself in love with him? Perhaps she had demanded Derek's hand in marriage the way a spoilt child demands a new toy and her doting father had done his best to deliver! Yet she had seemed somehow so oblivious to the way Derek flirted with me that first evening; somehow so cold to him and so alive only to fashion trends and household goods.

There was more to the story than Nora knew; that was evident.

I really needed to ask Derek. And yet he was the last person I wanted to talk to because I knew what he would say – 'stay the hell out of my business!' And we would quarrel and I would cry and....

Ugh!

A flight attendant was leaning solicitously over the man in the aisle seat. He was looking decidedly green.

Then I noticed something else. The flight was very bumpy, even the seats seemed unsteady. I'd been so caught up in my own thoughts that I hadn't even registered the ping of the seat-belt sign or heard our pilot's announcement about turbulence. In the Business Class section there was a shriek as the plane dipped and luggage crashed from an overhead locker.

Our attendant went hastily to her seat.

The plane dipped again, causing a collective aaaahhh from the passengers.

I almost wished…

No. Wishing everything to end is not in my nature.

I am Casey.

Three hours later, we touched down in London's gruesomely busy Heathrow airport. Once through Customs and Immigration, I switched on my phone. Then I flinched. Sixteen missed calls – nine of them from Derek. And two messages.

Biting my nails, I pressed play.

'Casey, I swear on my life, I meant to tell you.'

Hmm. That didn't sound angry. More sort of sad, really. I lifted the phone to my ear again. His voice was saying, 'but please, I know I don't deserve it, but please…' It gave me goose bumps.

I rewound the message.

'Casey, I swear on my life, I meant to tell you. I understand why you've run off and can't bear to be around me any more, but please, I know I don't deserve it, but please, just give me a chance to talk to you. It's not what it seems. I don't love her - and you know that. And I didn't do drugs – you know me – I'm not going to talk about this on the phone, it's too ridiculous and too complicated. Just call me. Okay? I have to see you. Casey, I - beeeep'. He'd been cut off. I shivered.

The second message was also from Derek, but this time he sounded_ mad_…. Not just any old angry, not just Saturday-morning-woke-him-early annoyed, but _utterly, ear-splittingly furious._

'Case, not sure where you're headed, but Nora seems to think you went to the International terminal, so I'm guessing you've decided to play games with my life. If this is so…' He'd paused, perhaps to gather himself, perhaps to suppress some of the anger that was leaking through into the words he spoke, 'I'm hoping that you get this BEFORE you get on a plane. But if you get it when you land, then all I can say is, think about Callum. Who loves you, Casey. And trusts you. Callum, who is my life.' Another pause. Then, less angrily, and more fearfully, 'Peter Salter-Kress is a powerful man, Casey. My wife – _his daughter_ – means a lot to him. And whatever you do…beeeeeeeep….'

The machine had cut him off. And he hadn't called back. I stood there on the pavement outside Heathrow airport, blinking into the sunshine and trying not to let my knees shake me out of my polished court shoes.

'Where to, madam?' The cabbie was staring at me curiously.

I sighed, and gave him the address in Oxfordshire.

'Phew! That's gonna cost ya!' was all he said, a smile on his face.

'You have no idea how much…' was what I muttered back, as we pulled out into a steady stream of commuter traffic.

**Review? I know I don't deserve it after the long wait, but you guys have big hearts! :-)**


	16. Know the Enemy

**No one could seriously think I'd be claiming to own the show by writing this… but anyway, I don't. Hugs to my lovely readers and thanks for nice encouraging comments. **

**Chapter Fifteen - Know Your Enemy**

_I could hardly believe it - here I was in England, on my way to confront Derek's father-in-law about a situation that I did not fully understand....The drive from the airport was long and I thought I might sleep... but no such luck!_

Okay, so my cabby proved to be ultra-loquacious. It wasn't something I was expecting or even really knew how to cope with, after my exhausting flight and the shock of Derek's phone messages.

But all through the outskirts of London and then as we sped down the motorway towards Oxford he continued to talk. He told me all about his family – parents now retired and living in Spain on the Costa del Sol, daughter Angelenica (_Angelenica?_ Seriously?) at university – the first in the family, his pride and joy; son John playing for a minor league soccer team and set to wow the family with his success… I tried to be calm and patient and to sound interested. I failed miserably.

'What's up, love? You look all set to cry. Did I say something to put ya in a mope?' As we passed more rolling green fields and more sheep, he was looking at me in the rear-view mirror with real concern in his eyes.

So yes, I confessed.

I totally lost my cool and told him the whole story, leaving out only the fact that Derek and I were stepsiblings.

I explained how we'd been in each other's lives for over a decade – almost but not quite acknowledging our passion, the debacle with the new wife, the strangeness of his behaviour in recent weeks. I told him about Callum and the part he played in our lives.

Weirdly, talking to this stranger, I felt as if I could say all the things I'd never even told my mother. Only Shuli has ever heard me talk this candidly about Derek: about the way his dancing eyes made my scalp tingle in excitement; about the way I longed from week to week and month to month to hear the sound of his lazy teasing voice on the telephone; about how his rudeness was more blessed to me than the most courteous politeness of other men.

Then I even let him listen to Derek's two crazy messages – one almost a declaration of love but not quite; the other so full of threat and foreboding. Finally I told him the name of Theodora's father. Then I waited.

'Oh, you've got it bad, my love,' was all he said at first, shaking his head. Then Simon – that was my cabbie's name – was silent for longer than he'd been silent since we began our journey.

We were now passing the outskirts of a small town near Oxford. I could see houses and fences and a few lamp posts. Then nothing. A very small town.

Finally he spoke.

'That's a lot you've taken on there, love, if you don't mind my sayin' so. This Romeo of yours isn't lying when he tells you to be careful. I can't say whether I've heard of this here gentleman Salter-Kress or not though the name rings a bell. But what I can tell you is that messin' with these here old gentlefolks is not a good idea – even if we are in the 21st century. They don't pay the laws no mind and they don't take lightly to being messed with by the likes of us. So-'

'Salter-Kress rings a bell?' I cut him off. 'Please. Can you think why?' I'd been racking my brains for the whole journey to think of ways I could find out a bit more about the people I was up against. Google had yielded nothing except a small item on local land boundaries – apparently back in the 1990s the Salter-Kresses had sold a part of their estate to a developer who had gone on to build on this land without planning permission. Peter Salter-Kress was listed as one of the councillors who had refused permission for the new buildings and sent a team to knock them down. The developer had accused him of corruption and threatened to go to the national press. It was all very vague and I found no follow up reports.

'Welll…' My cabbie was scratching his head. 'Can't really say where I've heard of him, love, sorry, just that it's an unusual name and I may have heard it. I don't come from round here, but my sister lives in Oxford, so perhaps I'll give her a call and find out.'

'Oh please, would you mind?' I was running on adrenaline now, feeling car-sick and homesick and all kinds of frightened. But the man's friendliness was quite reassuring.

I'd never met him before, but somehow he seemed trustworthy and when he dialled his sister on the cell phone I didn't complain that he was driving at the same time as I might otherwise have been inclined to.

We were now on an A-road, having skirted Oxford. I could still see the beautiful spires of one of the colleges. I would have loved to explore the town but I had not come here to be a tourist. I was here to save Derek from himself.

'Hiya Bea, it's me. Yeah.' Silence at his end, and I could hear squeals coming from his phone. Sounded like the sister was as talkative as he was. Then he said, 'Got a customer here reckons she needs the low down on some gent, name of Salter-Kress. Yeah. Didn't think you would. That's all right. Could you ask Jake? Could be he's heard something on the grape vine. Yeah. Yeah. He lives in the vicinity of Bottley. Yeah. Nice one.'

I drummed my fingers on my handbag as he waited for someone – I presume his brother-in-law – to come on the phone. Then a low murmur from the phone told me there was much being said. Simon-the-cabbie listened attentively then thanked his brother-in-law and closed his phone. But he didn't say anything to me.

'What happened', I asked, panicked. 'What did he say?'

It was getting dark. He drew the cab to a halt at the side of the road in a convenient if unlighted layby and then looked me in the eye. If he'd been anything but the overweight and chatty man I'd been listening to for the last hour I'd have made a jump for the door. But this was not a movie. I stayed put.

'Okay. We might not be on about the same bloke love, so don't get your hopes up. But my brother-in-law reckons he knows your gent.'

'And?' I was beyond caring that I sounded like a rude school girl.

'Hold your horses, love, I'm getting to it. He doesn't know much about him, but he does think that he's a local magistrate. Fact of the matter is, a mate of his was up on a minor driving misdemeanour not so long ago and this fellow Salter-Kress was on the bench. Leastways, that's what Jake thinks. Says he was sour as hell and a right old curmudgeon! Gave him three points on his license.'

I sighed. So Theodora's father was not just rich, he was also extremely powerful in his local community and a stickler for standards. I didn't know what a magistrate could do, but I figured even the local constabulary would be sympathetic to him, if not outright in his pocket. He probably thought Derek the worst sort of drug-taking reprobate and hated him. So why had he allowed his beloved only child to marry him then? Perhaps he might be sympathetic to my plight if I told him I thought his daughter was just too good for my step-brother. But then, there'd be no way of protecting Callum from the effects of his wrath. I had to think of a plan and quickly. I felt the beginnings of an idea - a real proper Casey idea - scratching at the back of my brain.

'How far are we from the address I showed you?'

'Not more than a mile to go, love.' He was looking at me with sympathy.

'Can you take me to a guesthouse really close to their village?'

'Sure. I know a cosy little B and B not too far from here. You'll be able to walk up to the manor in the mornin' – least if that's what's on your mind.'

'B and B?'

'Bed and Breakfast, love. They'll feed you dinner too, if you ask. Here we are.'

As he spoke, the last of the light had faded. But we had turned into the driveway of a cottagey looking building of white stone with climbing roses and the smell of jasmine fresh in the air. It reminded me of Montreal. It made my eyes tear up.

Parting with a good two hundred dollars, I said a warm goodbye to Simon the cabby.

Ten minutes later, I was sipping hot tea and listening to the kindly ramblings of my new landlady as she served me scones on little china plates. An hour later, utterly devoid of even the remnants of energy, I was lying on a lumpy bed in the crooked little room she'd assigned to me under the eaves.

The last thing I heard before I fell asleep was the sound of rain as it began to spatter against my tiny windows, obscuring all the longing for Derek and the trepidation about the morrow I was trying not to feel and lulling me... lulling me. Right into the calm before the storm.

**Review? Even secret new readers... I know you're looking, don't be shy!**


	17. The Sharper the Knife

**LwD – no ownership implied. Thanks again to everyone who reviewed and a plea to be forgiven if you think this is just too far off the usual Dasey stories. What can I say? I'm a writer and fanfiction does tell us 'unleash our imaginations...'**

**Chapter Sixteen - The Sharper the Knife...**

I woke with a start around five in the morning British time. I'd slept dreamlessly since eight the previous evening and felt completely refreshed, my mind sharp as a knife. I tried to shower silently in the tiny cramped bathroom in Mrs. Dingle's draughty Bed and Breakfast, but the pipes rattled, the water was freezing and the shriek I let out on encountering it's vicious shafts against my warm back would have woken heavier sleepers than the inhabitants of Rose Lodge.

I was soon engulfed in a nice warm bathrobe, however, and reading the text messages which had built up on my phone since the previous evening.

One from Callum: _Casey, thunking of bying pet pig. Help needed 2 convince mom. Xxxx_

I texted back that I would get into it with his mother the second I thought it was a good moment, adding that I hoped she wouldn't lose her temper and cook his pet pig. I could imagine Callum giggling in horror as he read that.

One from my mom: _Darling – what time-zone are you in? Can we talk?_

I deleted it and didn't text back. I would be ringing her in due course.

One from my Head of Faculty about a thesis we were about to examine together. Why was she texting instead of using e-mail? Whoops, my mailbox was probably full – I'd been a bit cavalier about work lately. I responded to her query politely.

One from Shuli accompanied by a picture of her and Marcel with some weird-looking sculpture in the background. I replied quickly, but neglected to mention that I too was in Europe. I had no idea what she'd do, but it certainly would not involve leaving me alone. That was not her style. She'd probably persuade Marcel to charter a plane for her so she could get to me and rescue me from the trouble she'd assume I was in. She had two simple rules for anything concerning Derek and myself: Act Fast and Spare no Cost.

Nothing more from Derek.

I looked at my smooth thigh peeking out through the bathrobe and remembered the day he and Callum barged in on me when I was drying my hair. The look he'd had in his eyes. Immediately my mouth went dry. Ugh! Why did he always make me think weird thoughts?

I decided not to listen to his messages again, although I was aching to hear his voice.

It was almost six and I could smell frying bacon. I didn't want to get all demoralised and miserable before breakfast.

I contented myself with a single glance at the picture I kept taped in the back of my journal: him with the light in his eyes, leaning on the breakfast counter in our kitchen back in London. The day we both left for college.

He'd been flicking through a list of courses for his new university and Edwin had sneaked up on him with my camera and taken it when he looked up, the sunlight making a halo of his messy brown hair, an ironic twist quirking his full lips into sensual glory. I'd paid Ed a good twenty bucks for not telling Derek I was the initiator of that sneak shot… and boy, it had been worth it!

When I developed the roll (yes, old fashioned Casey still used film in those days, rather than going digital) I had simply been unable to look at any of the other photographs.

I shut my journal. Today. Now. In the present. Come on Casey, get with the programme.

Mrs Dingle went to the trouble of making me hot cocoa, to apologise for the cold shower I'd had earlier: 'We don't expect our guests to shower before six, love; but you're Canadian, of course!' (Was she saying that made me weird by association or that I wouldn't have minded a cold shower?). I decided that I'd drink the cocoa, despite the fact that I was desperate for coffee.

I needed to pick her brains and then I needed to proceed with stage one of my PLAN.

--

'Good Morning. What can I do for you, Doctor McDonald?'

I smiled demurely.

Henry Clarridge was a barrister, the fanciest lawyer that I could contact at such short notice and the fact that he had agreed to see me at all was due to – well, my check-book, obviously.

I was paying dearly for his services – paying to the tune of eight hundred dollars an hour. I was determined to make the most of this.

'Call me Casey. How do you do, Henry, er, Mr. Clarridge?' I was trying not to take fright. I had expected someone so much older and yet here he was, seemingly barely in his forties, with an abundant head of golden hair and piercing blue eyes behind expensive looking frames. If I hadn't heard his accent – pure British – I'd have said he was from Sweden. So much for my mental stereotypes.

'I'm well indeed. All the better for seeing a lady from Ontario.' He could tell I was impressed that he knew where I came from; but he didn't pause. 'Now, I'm sure we could spend an hour very cosily going over my reminiscences of Toronto, but I'm also certain that you have pressing business or you wouldn't be here.'

'I do, Sir, yes.'

Ten minutes sufficed for me to outline the situation succinctly. Another ten for me to instruct him what I wanted him to do. (This time, I left out the fact that I was distressingly, passionately and almost obsessively in love with my stepbrother. Lawyers don't take kindly to passion, do they?).

'Hmm. That's a quarter of a million dollars, in your currency, and you say that you actually have it here with you, in the form of a banker's draft?'

'I do. And in case you're worrying about where it came from, it's all here in black and white in a letter from my bank manager. Some of it I've saved over the past decade. Some of it came to me as a settlement on my divorce from my ex-husband. He was a moderately famous poet and turned out to have a small fortune. All the taxes have been paid and the returns are up-to-date. There will be no surprises for you, on that front, Mr Clarridge, I assure you. But can you do what I need you to without alerting Peter Salter-Kress? On that depends the success or failure of my trip.'

'If as you tell me this person Salter-Kress has taken on the bond out of malice rather than kindness to your stepbrother Derek Venturi, then he'll clearly be displeased to have the bond removed. It obviously gives him leverage against him or against your family. However, as far as I know, there is no legal reason why you, as Derek's stepsister and legal relative, should not step in and pay it. Were you offering something as collateral in Canada, that might have been more difficult. But you have brought the cash with you, which the court will hopefully look favourably upon. Nevertheless, Casey, I cannot tell you for sure how this will transpire until I have read the court records, looked into the case and understood fully what the other conditions are. Why don't you come back to my office in,' he looked at his watch, 'three hours precisely. And I will be able to tell you for certain whether I can help you or not.'

Unwilling as I was to wait even one hour, I decided that I needed to calm down and accept his caution. I signed a check over to him for a ghastly sum of money and left his office with my heart beating like a jungle drum.

--

I had taken the first bus from Rose Lodge into Oxford and walked straight to the offices of Clarridge, Pringle, Venner and Hoyston.

Now I decided to look around.

I bought a map at a shop selling souvenirs and spent an enjoyable two hours rambling around the extensive grounds of Christ Church college, admiring the patterned spires of Keeble and squirming as I gazed at the shrunken skulls in the Pitt Rivers museum.

I walked to the river and had a quiet picnic of fruit and cheese sandwiches, feeling the most relaxed I'd been in months. I liked Oxford and decided that if and when happier times were in my fate, I would return. Perhaps with someone I loved beside me.

I still had an hour to kill. Checking my watch every five minutes was pointless, so I decided to prepare for the next stage of my plan. I went shopping.

Unusually for me, in under forty minutes I had acquired three different sets of clothing all the way from earrings and shoes to evening gowns and a hat and was now beginning to wish I had not done quite so much shopping or walked so far. The sun was making me perspire beneath my sober dress; birds were singing loudly. Chirpy students were eating their lunch. The bells of about six hundred churches seemed to be ringing all at once and tourists flocked around like happy pigeons in the glare.

When I returned to the chambers of Clarridge, Pringle, Venner and Hoyston, the pretty paralegal who answered the door to me ushered me straight into Henry Clarridge's room. He turned, as I entered, and stood looking at me with a slight frown: certainly no hint of his earlier friendliness.

My palms began to sweat. I was uncomfortably aware of my dishevelled state.

Had he discovered something dreadful in his trawl through the case files? Or, worse still, had he decided he did not want to go up against the dreaded Salter-Kress?

'I beg your pardon, Casey, but why didn't you tell me that Derek's father-in-law was also the magistrate before whom his case was heard?'

I gulped and placed my bags on the floor before responding, a hundred thoughts flashing across my mind. A magistrate, yes. I'd certainly known that, and I thought I had mentioned it to Clarridge. Simon the cabbie had alerted me to that fact. But _the _magistrate who had heard Derek's case?

'I didn't tell you, Mr Clarridge, because I had absolutely no idea. This is the first I am hearing of that.' I was almost wringing my hands, so desperate was I that he should believe me.

The truth was, I'd had no idea when Derek had first met Theodora's father. I had never discussed any of this with him. I had assumed that they met when Theodora had called to ask her father to sort out the situation she had got Derek into when he was caught with _her_ drugs on his person.

I had also assumed, erroneously I now saw, that Derek had been somewhat grateful to his rescuer and had hence agreed to stay at Theodora's house. But if Salter-Kress was the prosecuting magistrate and Derek had been taken before him in the first place, that could mean only one thing… Salter-Kress had made a considered decision about the punishment Derek was going to get before apparently coming to his 'rescue' by standing guarantor for his bond.

I began to get a very nasty tingling sensation at the back of my neck. Jetlag, heat and shock had crept up on me. If Henry Clarridge, QC of the ice-blue eyes had not retained the presence of mind to place a chair for me and open a window very swiftly, I would have fallen right there at his feet and landed my dignity on the heavy floral rug.

But nothing - nothing - was of as much concern to me at that moment as the thought that I had erred. I had underestimated our enemy. I had ignored Derek's warnings. And I would have to re-think my plans.

**Longer than last time... but still cliffhanging... Review and the next one will be up soon!**


	18. The Deeper the Cut

**Uh, still do not own... would never had written such a self-denying illogical ending as the show had otherwise... **

_So, in the last chapter, Casey had almost fainted when she heard that Thorny Salter-Kress' father had trapped Derek; and Henry (her recently acquired barrister) had very thoughtfully provided her with a drink and a chair._

_**Chapter Seventeen – The Deeper the Cut**_

I felt faint.

I'd just discovered that Derek's father-in-law had first set his bail and then taken on his bond, thus effectively trapping Derek in his debt.

Even if it hadn't been a conspiracy – I was at a loss to think how Derek could have made such a powerful enemy so quickly in a strange country – there was much more to the story than either Nora or I knew. And this really worried me, because it meant that simply paying the money and hiring a good defence lawyer might not get Derek out of the predicament he now seemed to be in.

I knew I ought to talk to him – preferably before agreeing to pay away all my life savings on his behalf. But I knew that he would be stubborn and proud, and refuse to allow me to help. So I was in a double bind.

I sighed. Henry Clarridge looked at me a little less sternly and more compassionately than before. His steely eyes seemed, in fact, to linger on my pale face with some pleasure. But I was in no mood for such thoughts.

There was barely any breeze blowing through the open casement so that didn't help my state. But, as you know, I'm not given to pointless fits of the vapours and quite soon was as recovered as one might expect under the circumstances. (Derek would have been proud of me. I didn't panic, at least overtly, the way I had when he crashed into George's car all those years ago!) I straightened my back and indicated to my new barrister that I was ready to proceed.

When we were seated at Henry's desk and he'd looked through the papers in his hands again, he asked me to pay attention because he had another client coming at two and needed me to make a decision before then.

'Casey, on consideration, I don't see why it would make any difference to the court if you pay the entirety of the bond that Peter Salter-Kress has taken on for Derek Venturi. Nor, I believe, will Salter-Kress have to be informed in his capacity as magistrate since his role was merely to rule at that specific bail hearing when Derek was present. However, as the signatory for the current bond, which I admit seems a very odd circumstance, his wife will have to be informed that someone has paid it. Since today is Thursday, if we pay it today, I could probably delay informing him until Monday. Would that give you enough time to do whatever else you are planning on this trip? Obviously, Derek still has to appear in court when his final hearing date is set or you will forfeit all your money. Would you like a few moments to think this through?'

On impulse I leaned forward and asked, 'Will you continue to represent him in this matter? If it comes down to his word against hers?' I couldn't even bear to say her name.

'If you mean between Theodora Salter-Kress and him, I will, since I believe that you at least think Derek's version of events is the truth. But he is now married to Theodora. You might be certain that this marriage is somehow problematic, but you have no concrete proof of this. And certainly the fact that they are married and have gone to live together in Canada will make any judge think twice about the whole matter; we might simply end up with both of them being considered guilty. Nevertheless, I am hopeful. It was not a large amount of…' His voice trailed off and he narrowed his eyes at me.

'What?' I asked.

'You're certain that your brother doesn't use cocaine? You think you know him but there are times when family members are the last to find out. Habits can be hidden.' He was stern again, and more than a little scary when he spoke like this.

'I assure you he does not!' I tried not to sound offended but my voice came out as a hyperventilating gasp. How should this stranger know Derek and his habits? 'Apart from anything else, he hasn't the money on his school-teachers' salary and with the amount he pays for his son's upkeep. Besides, I was with them both not a week ago. If anyone has a habit, it's her.' I felt bitchy. And then suddenly I felt really anxious. I hadn't thought about it before, but suddenly her erratic almost distant behaviour in relation to Derek, squeaky nasal voice and sudden fits of temper or good humour all seemed to point towards something of this nature. Even Callum had commented on it (albeit in relation to the empty wine bottles) and I, guilty about my own negative feelings towards her, had dismissed the possibility without thought.

Now it all began to make a horrible kind of sense.

'Hmm. You would need proof if you are to make any allegation of the sort against the daughter of Peter Salter-Kress. In any case,' Henry Clarridge said, rising from his chair and holding out his hand to me, 'I will accept your current commission of paying off the bond and report to you tomorrow at nine in the morning precisely. Make sure you call me. I will give you the papers and the receipt for your money all stamped by the time you depart.'

I stood too.

'I am more grateful than I can say. I…' I really was.

Henry nodded brusquely, picked up his intercom and asked someone called Jason to call me a cab. Looking again at the pile of wilting bags and boxes I had brought into his office, I was grateful again for his foresight. He might seem cool to look at and charge the earth for his services, but I realised I had found myself a good lawyer.

--

Back at Rose Lodge, I initiated stage two of my plan.

I was feeling drained, so I took a brief rest before showering (in warm water this time) and dressing carefully in a dove grey tailored suit with a white silk shirt (that had only one button at my midriff), a deep red brushed velvet jacket, and a red silk scarf.

As I dressed I couldn't help recollecting the last time I'd taken this much trouble to get my appearance perfect - it had been the night of Derek's and my leaving party back in London more than a decade ago. An age of innocence, you might call it, before Sandy and Callum, before the caravan and the pain and the years of self-denial. An age of innocence, despite the fact that I'd been planning a seduction.

Derek had said he wasn't going to anything lame that I might be at, so I'd made sure he got a look at my outfit through a slightly open door the evening of the party. Not just my outfit, in fact. Rather the person who'd be wearing it.

I'd left my door ajar, and hummed loudly to myself as I sprayed on perfume (courtesy of Nora), slid the silk top on (spaghetti straps, courtesy of Emily, who'd giggled and giggled me right up to the counter when I was shopping for sensible things).

Although I'd left the door open on purpose, I was still startled when I turned and found him leaning, lithe, smiling, arms crossed, in my door way. There was complete mischief in his eyes, something that always triggered both my excitement and my will to resist.

'Der-_ek!_ How dare you sneak up on me like that?'

I'd thrown myself at the door, as if to slam it on him, and only managed to end up in his arms. ('How dare I? Hmm. When was the last time you dressed with your door open, Case? Didn't you think that Edwin might die of shock?') Again, as on the night we'd passed each other on the stairs, as on so many other occasions, he didn't kiss me.

He didn't kiss me (because of Truman, because of Emily, because of Marti down the hallway), but when he'd released me (fingers on my arms, my back, palms sliding along to my elbows), I'd had to lie on my bed for ten minutes catching my breath. He didn't kiss me, but then, when you can hear each other's crazy heart-beats, feel each other's breath, smell each other's need and uncertainty and desperate adoration, kisses are kind of superfluous.

--

I smiled a slow secret smile when I saw myself in the mirror.

All those years ago - it had worked like a charm. Derek came to the leaving party - which did indeed turn out to be the lamest affair ever with lots of silly sentimental speeches, and punch that had no punch, and from which he escorted me home shoeless in the moonlight (seductive heels are not appropriate for walks through other people's garden ponds). Now - well, I was dressing for a different and altogether less enticing purpose.

Generally, I'm not one for the make-up box; but this time I spent longer than usual doing my face and hair until there was not a strand or an eyelash out of place, till the alabaster powder made my already flawless skin glow like that of a teenage diva.

Finally I added a tiny purse, which dangled uselessly from my wrist and made me feel a lot like a comedy actress in an episode of Wooster and Jeeves.

My friendly landlady, Mrs Dingle, let out a cheerful whistle when she saw me.

'Oh my! Aren't you a sight for sore eyes!'

'Thank you.' I replied softly. I wanted to impress her, because I needed a favour. 'How would you feel about calling the house of a someone I know in the neighbourhood and finding out if they are at home. I don't want to make a wasted trip.'

'Why certainly, love. Give me the number.'

'I'd appreciate it if you didn't mention me when you call. I want to surprise them.' I tried to look bright and cheerful. I obviously succeeded because she wasn't a bit surprised.

'Understood.' She was already dialling the number and looking at the names I'd written on the paper. A minute later she nodded to me. Tricky Salter-Kress was at home with his lady wife. In fact, he was entertaining that evening, she told me, a variety of local community leaders and the Member of Parliament for the ward in which they were domiciled.

'You've got friends in high places, love.' She said, a little less comfortable than she'd been before. A little less at ease with me.

I only smiled.

I called a taxi and directed the driver to the Salter-Kress mansion.

For now, it was Game On!


	19. Keep Your Enemies Close

**Don't own LwD**_._ **Hey folks, I hope this chapter is more satisfying, not in a Dasey way obviously, but kind of getting there…**

_The last chapter saw Casey executing the first steps of a cunning plan to extricate Derek from his troubled predicament with the Salter-Kress clan. She dressed to kill and is now going to have tea with them. Wish her luck._

**Chapter Eighteen - Keep Your Enemies Close**

I paid the driver fifty bucks and asked him to wait for me just beyond the Salter-Kress grounds. Then I rang the doorbell.

'Yes? How can I help you.' I was being scrutinised by a very bald fellow in the oddest waistcoat and tails I'd ever seen. He looked like something out of a fairytale and I fully expected him to take out a monocle and start examining me through it.

'I'm here to see Peter.' I said, breezily. 'I'm a friend of Dora's…' His eyebrows shot up and he scuttled off, leaving me seated in a beautifully decorated antechamber beside their wide front hall.

It had started to rain again while I was riding in the taxi from Rose Lodge, and now I could hear a stormy breeze shaking the trees outside. I was listening to the wind and didn't hear my host enter the room.

I whirled around at his voice.

Standing in front of me was a man who could have been a plaster sculpture, so straight was his back, so broad his shoulders. His moustache was white, but everything else about him reeked of health and vigour. 'Peter Salter-Kress at your service', he said, looking me over curiously, not a hint of caution or anxiety in his face. Yet.

His accent made him sound condescending, even if he did not mean to be and I felt myself cringing inside.

Carefully calming my nerves, I held out my hand. 'Dr. Casey McDonald.' I said. 'I've had the pleasure of looking after your lovely daughter Dora in Montreal these past weeks.' I paused for effect and dropped my voice. 'I come with news of her. Since I had academic business at the University, I thought it would be only courteous to call upon you and deliver it in person.'

I thought I saw his expression falter, for just a moment, before he regained his composure and invited me to follow him into the drawing room.

'I have guests here, Dr. McDonald, as you can see, but we will get a few moments to talk in private at the end of the evening. Would you oblige me by remaining with us for tea? My wife will show you around. Any friend of our daughter's is a friend of ours.' The last sentence was patently insincere. I wondered what kinds of 'friends' she had invited home.

He handed me over to a fair-haired, scrawny woman who appeared several years older than her husband and was too busy with the numerous demands of her position to take much notice of me; Salter-Kress then stalked off to join a group of severe looking men in leather arm chairs at the far end of this capacious room and a heated discussion ensued with much waving of arms and stamping of feet.

When my hostess turned fully to face me, I realised she was the spitting image of Derek's wife, Theodora. She looked vaguely puzzled to have me foisted on her but took me around and offered me tea politely enough, commenting pleasantly on my 'lovely earrings' – grandma McDonald would have been astonished that I'd never worn her garnets till that day. She obviously hadn't heard that I was connected to her daughter in any way because she also told me that her daughter would approve of my 'darling little bag'. Humph.

Then mama Salter-Kress left me beside a bookshelf and went to look after her other guests. I felt vaguely sorry for her, thinking of what was to come. Then, remembering why I was here, I hardened my heart.

I chatted gaily to various local characters: first loudly, about Montreal, about Theodora's 'life' there; then, more softly, to a professor of History at one of the most prestigious colleges (who held forth about British culture and how immigrants were causing British traditions to be submerged, diluted, polluted); to a quirkily handsome clergyman from the local church (who all but came out and asked me to accompany him on a date), to Theodora's second cousin, Silky (Cecile) Salter-Kress who seemed to do nothing with her time but attend one gala event after the other (while exclaiming that she thought academia the most _rotten profession_ on the face of the earth and not at all suitable for a woman).

She commented on my hair, (appearing to think that I could not naturally be a brunette) and on my skin, thinking I must have 'done something' to enhance my appearance. Collagen injections? An epidermal peel? The latest _It_-girl fetish. I allowed her to think what she wanted.

Then she accidentally let drop something that made my pulse race.

Last summer Theodora has been checked into an exclusive clinic in London for a number of weeks and Silky had visited her there ('and that was such an utter bore, too', she declared, ' we weren't even allowed to get a manicure at that hopeless prison'.)

I pretended this information was of no interest to me and moved the conversation back to her hairdresser, which suited her just fine.

All through the evening I wondered how on earth Derek had fitted in, even for a brief spell, with these utterly conceited, shallow-brained and self-aggrandizing people. I made a much-needed trip to the washroom to 'powder my nose' and sat on the marble toilet seat checking my messages. Another missed call from Derek and one message. His sleeping voice, just saying my name over and over: 'Casey? Case? Hey Caseee? Spacey? Case?' then the beep of the machine. I brushed my lips to my phone like an idiot. Then I went back to the fray.

If it wasn't for my outfit and title, I probably wouldn't have made it through the front door. Scratch that. Despite my outfit and title they would never have allowed me in if I hadn't taken Theodora's 'pet' name so confidently.

As I spoke more and more loudly about his daughter, I'd seen Peter Salter-Kress casting puzzled and increasingly anxious glances in my direction.

He left the room several times, and was certain he'd been trying to call Theodora in Canada.

From his crestfallen expression when he returned, he had been unable to reach her. Yay for me.

I wondered what would happen if he actually did manage to connect with her. I hadn't exactly spelled out my connection to Derek just as yet, and he clearly had not heard of the 'step' part of the family. No wonder I hadn't been invited to the wedding.

Feeling his eyes on me, I spoke in a deliberately loud whisper to cousin 'Silky', informing her that I thought her cousin Dora might need another little stint in a clinic if someone didn't come and rescue her from her current 'situation'.

Silky didn't look even vaguely interested, but I heard her uncle muttering gruff and hasty goodbyes to a number of guests. I had rattled him.

This was just what I had intended.

Luck was on my side: he had taken the bait.

His palpable anxiety meant that it was, from now onwards and as long as no intercontinental communication occurred, advantage Casey.


	20. Goading the Beast

**Oh Life with Derek – **_**so not mine**_**. Here's a quick update as a gift and thank you for the kind reviews.**

**Chapter Nineteen – Goading the Beast**

Not more than an hour later, I found myself seated in a grim and imposing old study, with a combined smell of wood, polish and leather upholstery.

You could say I found myself face to face with my worst fear.

On the desk was a huge framed photograph of Theodora and Derek in splendid English wedding array.

Derek's face was serious; Theodora's was wreathed in smiles.

In the photograph, they were holding hands and when I looked more closely, I realised that they must have just cut the wedding cake because their joined hands held a pearl-handled knife. How ironic.

The whole thing made me gag.

But still I smiled and told Peter Salter-Kress how splendid everything looked. What a lovely portrait of Dora it made.

My host poured himself a brandy, and insisted that I have one too. I tried to be demure but he wasn't having any of it.

'Now, Cassandra, young lady,' (did I tell him that was my name? Well he could call me whatever he wanted…) 'you don't mind if I call you by your lovely name? Please, do tell me your news.'

'Mr Salter-Kress, I won't beat about the bush. I came to see you on this extraordinarily busy lecture-tour of mine because I am concerned about my friend Dora. Er…' I pretended to pause. 'Your daughter, Theodora, I mean. She doesn't seem well. In fact', I took a huge gamble, 'she seems either to be extremely unhappy in her new marriage or in the power of some mood altering substance.' I managed to make my voice drip with concern during the last few phrases but also to rise a little, as if I disapproved ever so slightly of her choices.

He started as if I had punched him.

'What an extraordinary thing to say. Really?! That is… er… may I ask how you met my daughter? I believe that I recollect her mentioning you, but I do not recall in what context.'

'I am Derek Venturi's stepsister.'

Another huge start: if we were playing a game, then I was distinctly at an advantage.

'I have detested him' (as if I couldn't even bear to say his name....) 'unashamedly for more than a decade, ever since my dear mother took up with his lazy, self-serving father,' (my fingers were so tightly crossed in my lap that I might need an operation to uncross them), 'and I can tell you that he would drive any woman to drink…. _or worse_. I have been trying, to the best of my ability, to keep your marvelous daughter safe and entertained in Montreal… but Sir, I ask you, how on earth could you expect someone of her taste and refinement to enjoy life in a parochial little place like Montreal and with a philandering high-school teacher after the life she's been used to in England? It's no wonder if she has to seek some comfort…' I left the sentence hanging.

'Philandering…?' His voice was high with rage.

'Oh, come on, sir. You are a man of the world. My stepbrother couldn't be faithful if you kept him chained to his wife. Surely you must have seen that when he was here with you during the wedding? Certainly it was only your leniency and the money he was after… there could have been no other reason for him to marry your daughter. I'm sorry if that is a painful revelation but if Dora is ever to be happy, you must act now, before it is too late.'

'But we have a prenuptial agreement.' He spluttered, his white mustache bristling with ire. 'He stands to gain nothing. You hear me? Nothing. And he didn't even _want_ to marry her… he required a great deal of … er…persuasion when she finally managed to get him to stay with us after that dreadful debacle at the wretched music festival that she insists on attending every year. As you say, Dora is a naïve one. Quite the innocent, despite her mother's sound advice and her worldly cousin. She was certain that Derek was her knight in shining armour.'

It was my turn to feel a jolt. Derek hadn't wanted to marry her – that didn't really surprise me. But she really had thought she was in love with him? Something wasn't right there. I'd seen no evidence at all that she felt more for Derek than she did for a large annoying piece of furniture. I wanted to stop and ask questions, but I had gone too far now to retract.

'Oh', I managed to say breezily, 'did he try that _not interested_ routine on you? It works like a charm. No, Mr Salter-Kress, trust me, _what Derek wants, Derek gets_. I've had plenty of experience. Think about it. Now, what's hers is his, thousands of miles away, for as long as he can stay married to her. The pre-nup only specifies that he gains nothing in the event of a divorce, not that he may not benefit from her while they are married.' I was guessing wildly now.

'That little swine! I thought he was too good-looking to be trusted. But what could I do? Dora was besotted, threatening to elope if I didn't let her marry him… and even yesterday she was on the telephone singing his praises, telling me what a gentleman he was being…. Come to think of it, she did sound a little uncertain when I asked her where he actually was... Devil take him!' I winced. His face looked apoplectic. It was red and sweating, his neck straining at his collar, the skin around his eyes puffy with rage.

'Oh, believe me, if I had a cent for every young lady Derek's seduced, my fortune would be vast indeed!' My heart was beating so fast I could barely remain in my seat. I needed air.

'Aargh…' Was he going to collapse? Or hit me, perhaps?

Time to hammer in the final nail.

I used my most prissy, school-marmish voice but at the same time allowed my jacket to drop slightly open so that he was distracted and disconcerted by the femininity of my garnet necklace and silk shirt. Surely he wouldn't hit a lady?

'But sir, as her father, it was your duty to ensure her happiness not by giving in to her cravings', I lingered slightly on the word, and let my double meaning sink in, 'but by ensuring her lasting happiness. Surely you must have seen that Derek Venturi did not belong to the class of people you'd even want to let into your home, let alone be the life partner of your delicate Dora?' Was I laying it on too thick?

I expected him to get up and show me the door; to pick up the telephone; to call my bluff.

But, bizarrely, his eyes shifted uncomfortably around his study before he responded. 'Please, Cassandra, could I ask you to keep all this dreadful news between us and to refrain from informing her mother until I have taken steps to neutralise this cad, Venturi? There has been a lot of trouble in our family these last few years and it has taken its toll on my wife. I'd rather she heard nothing of this until I have Dora safe and sound at home again. I can see that my child has not been quite straight with me. If she has realised that Derek does not love her, she must be close to despair, my poor baby, which quite excuses her little deception.' And then, more softly, 'No wonder she's started _using_ again.' His moustache was still bristling with stress.

The brandy glass on his desk was empty. Mine was still full. I swapped our glasses discretely and nodded in a condescending manner. Salter-Kress lifted the full glass absent-mindedly and downed the portion of brandy in one gulp.

I rose from my seat and and handed him my rather prettily designed card. (Sometimes it comes in useful being an academic).

'I have to go now, Mr. Salter-Kress. I have an appointment with the Bishop of Chelbridge.' He had no idea who I was talking about, and neither did I, but it sounded impressive. He stood too, swaying slightly and looking flustered.

'As I was saying, Cassandra, I _must_ help my daughter out of this trouble I have allowed her to get into and that you have so solicitously informed me of. I _must_ dissolve their union and bring her back to England as soon as possible. And then I will deal with that fellow… _that masquerading puppet_!'

He wasn't even looking at me any more, this man who talked about 'dissolving' marriages and who had all but blackmailed the love of _my_ life into marrying _his_ daughter in the first place. The rich surely are a law unto themselves.

In case he was looking, I bowed slightly in his direction, turned and left, first the room and then the house, walking as swiftly as my shoes would allow in the muddy gravel until I was quite out of sight of their driveway. Then I stood on a wet stone by the side of the darkening road and waved to my taxi.

I could see my cabbie regarding me suspiciously, before he realised who I was and came driving up with a smile on his face. Foresight is a great thing. I climbed in and leaned back against the cushioned seat feeling utterly drained.

I had goaded the monster and its rage was terrible.

But_ Trouble?_ I thought. You have not seen trouble like I'm going to show you, Salter-Kress, if you harm a hair on Derek or Callum's head.

**And… reviews? :-)**


	21. Night and Morning

**I don't own LwD. Thanks readers and reviewers for the kind messages and reviews for this and **_**Not Talking to You**_**. You're the best!**

_In the last chapter, Casey played the role of an embittered step-sister trying to rescue Salter-Kress' daughter from the grasp of the villainous seducer, Derek. In her attempts, she managed to infuriate Peter Salter-Kress to the point where his only design now is to dissolve the marriage between Derek and Theodora. Let's hope Casey's plan does not backfire…_

**Chapter Twenty - Night and Morning**

It was nearly eight and quite dark by the time my cabbie returned me to Rose Lodge. Small groups of departing travellers were standing around on the gravel drive, and there was a rather formidable looking Jaguar parked in front of the lodge.

I hoped I could slip upstairs unnoticed, and avoid dinner. My recent duel with Peter Salter-Kress had quite dispelled any appetite I may have had and left me in serious need of some alone time. But as soon as I pushed open the great Oak door of the lodge and shrugged out of my pretty jacket, my landlady came bustling up to me in the hallway and ushered me aside in a portentous manner.

'There's a gentleman here to see you, my love. Wouldn't tell me his name or his business, but seemed sure you'd want to talk to him.' She sniffed and looked rather uncomfortable.

Perhaps she thought I'd been giving out the address to strange men. And now they were calling on me in the twilight (with dubious intentions). The fact that he hadn't revealed his name made me feel awkward. But I'm Casey. I wasn't going to be intimidated so easily.

'Okay, show me where he is', I said warily, to convince her I was taking her implicit warning seriously; 'and believe me, I didn't expect any visitors. It's been an awfully long day.'

She cheered up mightily when I said that, and tutted to herself over my obvious exhaustion. Then she led me off to the left of the main hall and into what could only have been her own private sitting-room, so cosily was it furnished, with bright coloured rag rugs, and beautiful copper vessels hanging near a prepared but as yet unlighted fire.

A man was standing with his back to us, seemingly admiring some old golfing trophies in a cabinet.

'Sir', she called to him. 'Doctor McDonald is here.' Then she left us.

When he turned round, I realised I'd sort of known who it was the whole time. Henry Clarridge. Except that this time he was wearing a soft cream cotton shirt and dark blue jeans, and looked almost a decade younger than he had in his office. His fair hair was wind-ruffled and there were tiny smile-lines creasing around his eyes which were, for quite a long moment, openly taking in my appearance. He obviously liked what he saw, for he couldn't seem to speak or to look away.

I was still in my silk shirt (with it's single mother of pearl button) and tiny sharply cut skirt, with the ridiculous little bag dangling from my wrist.

I cast him an enquiring look.

'I've brought you something', he said hastily averting his eyes. He reached into a cardboard folder that he had placed on a table behind him, then held out a piece of paper towards me.

Scanning it, I let out a deep breath. The bond was paid in full. At least that one hold that Salter-Kress had over Derek had been loosened.

'Thank you. Thank you so much. How magically fast you did all this.' I looked up, eyes shining, and he appeared extremely pleased at the effect his news was having on me.

'There's more for you to consider, but I've put it all in writing and it's in that folder over there so that you can go over it with your step-brother at your leisure on your return. There's a set of issues for him to think about when he returns to have his final hearing; if he chooses to retain me as counsel, then we can move ahead with all of that. If not, I wish him well.'

'That's so kind of you. There's no question that he will wish you to act on his behalf when I tell him everything you've done.' I didn't quite know what else to say or what to do, as we were both still standing. He cleared his throat.

'Casey…' He said gruffly, 'Would you do me the honour of dining with me? I know that you are very shortly to fly back to Ontario but it would be such a … pleasure… for me to share some of my memories of your wonderful country. I worked there for several years as I think I told you.' I could see that he was not used to stammering. Even, perhaps, to asking a woman out at such short notice. Or perhaps it was that I was his client. That must have been some kind of barrier. So to have overlooked this professional etiquette, either he was just being polite to a stranger in town, or he was powerfully attracted to me.

Both scenarios made me squirm with discomfort. Good-looking and sophisticated as Henry Clarridge was, and kind as he had been to me, I could not imagine ever looking at him as anything other than my lawyer. But now that I had calmed down after my encounter with Theodora's parents, I was beginning to feel very hungry indeed. And, selfishly, I didn't want to hurt Henry's pride or make him turn against me in any way.

'Yes, Henry', I said. 'I'd love to dine with you. But please don't bill me – my purse has suffered rather a lot today already!'

Eyes twinkling, Henry held out his arm for me as we swept past a rather bemused looking crowd in the hallway.

--

The Jaguar, I learned, belonged to him. He whisked me off in it to a tiny candlelit English pub with beautiful old-fashioned food, and understated live music.

We conversed very happily throughout the meal about my recent research, about Quebec and Ontario, about differences in culture and tradition. Henry was clever and thoughtful, from the same class as the Salter-Kresses I learned, but quite different from them in education and sentiment. His work involved a diversity of clients and contexts – he was proud that he rarely let a client down.

I asked him if he ever defended anyone he didn't trust or believe in. He hesitated. I tried to wave the question away, realising I'd crossed a line, but he held up a hand.

'I work for a firm, Casey. There are senior partners involved. The firm chooses to take on a range of cases. Some of them get assigned to me. I try to use my instincts as much as I can to guide the decisions that get made. Sometimes inevitably I end up defending someone who does not quite meet my standards. Sometimes they are innocent in everything but the spirit of the law.'

'I appreciate your honesty.'

By the time the clock struck eleven and I'd finished a most delectable dessert of crème brule and cherries, I was extremely tipsy and couldn't stop smiling at him.

Then, as he steered the Jaguar effortlessly out into a now empty road, he asked if I would like to spend the night at his house. Just like that. And suddenly I was blushing and gauche again, like a teenager.

'I'm not sure that would be such a good idea,' I whispered, twisting and untwisting the little purse in my lap, and desperately hoping he hadn't thought I was leading him on. And then, 'In other circumstances, Henry, maybe… I might have asked you to have breakfast with me…'

He had the grace to laugh. We were turning through the gates of Rose Lodge. He walked me to the door.

'Goodbye, Casey. Perhaps we'll meet again when your stepbrother's case is heard?'

'Perhaps.' I leaned in quickly and kissed his close-shaven cheek. 'Goodnight, Henry. I won't forget our evening.'

'I won't either.' He said. 'I don't often meet a sister – let alone a stepsister – who is willing to do what you have done for Derek. You are an extraordinary woman, Casey McDonald.'

It could have been my imagination but I thought he blushed as he stepped towards me to take my hand. When he didn't drop my hand but continued to hold it momentarily, I gently withdrew it.

**--**

I was in bed, finally, after what seemed like an interminable day.

I had blisters on my feet from the new shoes, an empty wallet from the absurdly high cab fare earlier in the evening, and an ache in my heart that was usually buried so deep I didn't even know it was there.

Only today, having paid my entire life's saving towards his bond, lied about him, heard his name taken in tones of righteous anger by a most unworthy and despicable man and then again quite innocently by one who would have courted me had I let him, the possibility of ignoring the commonest of my symptoms was slim.

Aching hearts don't respond well to pills or potions. Besides, loving Derek was like a second nature to me.

There were things on my phone of course, that I could have listened to again – recent ones, older ones, quite a collection of his voice messages and texts I could have read and a few cherished shots of him taken when he was not noticing and saved from phone to phone over the years. But I was too weary and sad even for that.

I closed my eyes, and when I opened them again the sun was shining and there was someone knocking softly at the door of my quaint little room.

Sleepily I looked at the tiny watchface beneath my pillow. Half past eleven. HALF PAST ELEVEN on Saturday morning? I had slept for ten hours without waking. I rolled out of bed and threw on my dressing gown over the T-shirt and shorts I'd slept in. The wooden floor was cool under my bare feet.

Then I asked, 'Who is it?' There was no reply but the knocking came again.

I yanked open the creaky old door.

I don't know who I had expected to see. Perhaps my landlady with a message about breakfast. Perhaps Henry Clarridge, come to try his luck for the last time. Perhaps one of Salter-Kress's minions, with orders to kidnap me for my role in his daughter's humiliation.

But the reality was far more perturbing, far more overwhelming.

Travel-weary and showing his stubble, but breathtakingly beautiful as always, the very stepbrother in question stood outside, knuckles poised to knock again. 'Shhh', he warned, 'that old witch thinks I have designs on your honour! She's put me in a room at the top of the house and only told me your room number under severe duress!'

I took two steps backwards and then burst into tears.

Derek, for his part, took two steps forward and pulled me quite ungently against his chest, kissing my tears and my forehead, my chin and my mouth with equal and most unbrotherly intensity. Will you be mad at me if I admit that just for once I simply lost control and kissed him back even before he'd kicked my door shut?

**Phew! Review?**


	22. Not All Bad

**Of course I still don't own LwD. I'm still in the process of rather overwhelming job-hunting but since so many of you have written so very nicely asking when's the next chapter's up – here it is! Short, I know, but sweet.**

**Chapter Twenty-one - Not All Bad**

'She's not all bad, you know.'

I'm not sure if those are the exact words Derek uses because I'm trying to imagine his hair without the grey in it, trying to imagine that we are back in high school, sweethearts with no secrets. Words cannot be exact when you want things to be the exact opposite of what they are. When you are wishing away time.

There are things scattered around this delicious little room, in this quaint little guesthouse, in this far away English town, that is so unlike Montreal yet which feels spookily like home.

There are things everywhere.

The scent of roses and the smell of fresh baked bread drifting cunningly up through the floorboards and in at the diamond-shaped windowpanes.

A discarded sock and a chair we knocked over in our journey to the bed.

Derek's passport and my dressing-gown snuggling on top of his backpack.

If we were asleep, I could not be more at peace. If an electric wire were running tiny currents across my skin, I could not be more alert.

It is the most perfect day of summer I have experienced since I was five and my palm fitted snugly within my mother's.

And then he says it again. 'She's not all bad, you know.' Says it with his eyes closed, his breath burning my fingers, the nape of my neck.

If he isn't asleep after his marathon journey, he certainly should be. 'Shhh', I whisper. 'Don't talk'.

But for some reason, he seems to feel he has to get through to me, with an urgency that I think bitterly he hasn't been feeling for the last twelve years.

'She isn't all bad. You don't know what she's been through.'

I push him away from me. Get up from the bed, a slight tremble in my stomach. Straighten the chair and tuck it beneath the tiny antique desk my landlady has so thoughtfully placed by the window. I pick up his socks and fold them neatly together. I reach for my dressing gown and then there he is, behind me, arms round my waist, cheek on my cheek, chin on my shoulder as if we are husband and wife and have been doing this every day of our lives since we were eighteen.

'Casey.'

'What? What do you want me to say? If _that woman_ is what you want, why are you here?'

'I didn't say she's who I want. Come on, Case, be reasonable.' _Who_, not _what_. Somewhere along the way he's become a gracious and respectful man; and I've turned into a bitter spinster? This is not fair. NOT FAIR, I think, refusing to relax against him, as I know he wants me to. Pouting furiously. Ready to make another nasty remark.

'Will you just talk to me? Please, for once, let's put all our cards on the table.' He sounds so tired. 'For Callum's sake?'

But I'm still sulky.

Blood is thundering inside my ears.

I feel unbearably, cruelly pinned by my jealousy.

I do not want to hear one nice thing about Theodora, not one extenuating circumstance, not one fake tearful episode in her poor little rich girl life. I am a big enough person to spend my life-savings on Derek and Callum without a second thought. I am not big enough to sit with him and hear my rival praised.

However, a tiny little bit of me – the grown-up, well-rested slept-thirteen-hours, was-asked-out-by-Henry-Clarridge and just-been-kissed-by-the-love-of-my-life part of me – wants to hear what he has to say.

And another part of me – the good little girl, never-used-to-tell-lies-before-my-dreadful-stepbrother-taught-me part of me – wants desperately to confess to him what I have been doing in these last three days in Oxford as I've tinkered and messed with the delicate balance of this most extraordinary chapter in his life.

In fact, scratch that, I'm completely desperate to hear what he will say when I tell him that at this very moment his father-in-law is probably doing everything in his power to get Theodora to divorce her handsome husband. That he may well be plotting some deep and evil vengeance against Derek and all his kin. And that all this is my doing. My mouth goes dry.

So I sigh, attempt to pull my t-shirt down over my thighs, turn in his arms and murmur, 'Okay' in my most long-suffering, miserable Casey voice. (Oh yes, you thought I didn't know what you thought about me all those years ago? But I did. I always knew. You were fans of Derek's really, most of you, not mine. You only liked me because I kept him away from other girls – well, some of the time! You only liked me because you saw a little bit of yourselves in me and that satisfied your own absurd crushes on my stepbrother.)

'You'll tell the truth?' he asks, quirking his fine dark brows at me above those tired, so-beloved brown eyes.

'Nothing but.' I say. Then I have no breath left in me to ask if he'll do the same. How does it matter anyway?

So. This is how Derek and I find ourselves at either end of my rented bed, almost chin to chin, propped on our elbows, admiring each other's lips and staring into each other's eyes trying to spot the merest whisper of hesitation, the slightest hint of deceit. All the clocks all over Oxford start chiming the noon hour in the same second.

I'm expecting him to start with questions about why I'm here, poking my nose into his business. No, I'm expecting him to start with some sob story about Theodora's struggle against her pathetic addiction to drugs. I'm expecting lots of things. But instead, he asks:

'So, you're still in love with me after all these years?'

And I screech, 'Der_ek_!' just as my cell-phone gives a single piercing tone and goes dead.

Then we're tangled in the patchwork covers again, fighting and kissing, truth and lies awarded a rain check. And this time, I don't tell myself that we have to stop.

Later, much later, he says, 'She's not all bad, you know. She's the one sent me over here after you. Thought her dad might kill you or some such foolishness.'

But I don't respond, because how can I when I can barely understand him, when language itself is dissolving in and out of my ears, sliding beneath my skin like the finest silk as his fingers tense and loosen at my throat, my hair, my back, while mine smooth his forehead, touch roughly over his parted lips?

**Missed you guys a lot. Reviews welcome! ;-)**


	23. The Reward for Waiting

**I own my own story I think - but not LwD, as ever. Dear readers, there's been so much wonderful writing on LwD lately that I'm sure you will forgive my absence. I was away in India with my family with no access to technology of any kind. Strangely refreshing!**

**_We last left our favourite couple in each other's arms, in a small British Bed and Breakfast not far from villainous Salter-Kress's home._**

**Chapter Twenty-two - The Reward for Waiting**

I can't speak for Derek, but as I showered in perfectly icy water later that Saturday afternoon, I could have told you exactly where my heart was (despite my lack of any observable medical degrees and my mistrust of amateur medics). It was inside the chest of another human being.

Impossible, you say?

Well, then, perhaps you can account for the fact that every breath in and out of my lungs seemed to take exactly six seconds longer than usual, Perhaps you can explain why I only felt as if there was enough oxygen in the air when I got out of the shower and tumbled back amongst the pillows with him. Perhaps you can explain how, without even opening his eyes he knew exactly where to place his mouth so that it would meet mine in precisely the right way and reopen access to my oxygen supply.

Even the thought of potential grievous bodily harm if Salter-Kress discovered our whereabouts, even the sad tale of family tension and misery that Derek recounted, even the chiming of the hour six by all the clocks in Oxfordshire did not alter the fact that I was supremely, indescribably, stomach floatingly happy. And when Casey's happy – well, you know, I'm not sure the last time I was this happy. So even I don't know what the consequences will be.

While Derek slept, I dressed myself in another one of the outfits I'd so painstakingly selected the previous afternoon, strappy silver high heels, a fitted blue silk dress in the simplest of cuts. Then I tapped him on the chest (to check that my heart was still there) and blew in his ear. 'You're taking me to dinner', I whispered, warmed to my fingertips by the complete delight in his sleepy smile.

Whatever awaited us – and I wasn't stupidly unaware that Callum's future might be involved – this evening was something owed us for the last decade. Patience should always be rewarded.

--

I will tell you what happened on our first official date, indeed I will. I know that you are licking your lips, you romance fiends! You've waited all these years and you deserve to know. But perhaps I should tell you first some of the things Derek talked about before he fell asleep? Perhaps I should alert you to some of the truths we exchanged and the very serious decisions we were faced by.

--

'She's not all bad.' Yes, that's where it started. And, comatose from kisses as he had made me, there was something in his tone that I had to listen to.

Remember, he is no longer entirely the boy who thoughtlessly made a girl pregnant, and recklessly told his stepsister in a midnight embrace. He is now the man who has jointly raised a most beautiful son for over ten years; a man who can put himself second and take responsibility, despite the impression of lazy selfishness that I manage to convey every time I write of him. Perspective is a very important thing. So I listened, and this is the story he told me.

'I met Thea (Thea? I hadn't ever heard him call he that, but it softened her, made her sound so much less the guileful heiress or spoilt little girl) at a big music festival. You know, the one I'd talked to you about going to for years. They were doing a tribute to Solange – you know, after they all died in that horrible crash last year – and I wanted to spend my last week of travel doing something special. The truth is I'd missed you so much all through the trip that I'd almost decided to skip out and come home early.'

I'd elbowed him, to get him back on track.

'Okay, okay! So, somehow we ended up in the same tent, because I made friends with this guy and she was already friends with him, or at least that's what I thought and there were about four other people there whom I didn't know, all smoking something and I accepted a puff or two of something - you know me, Case, I don't do hard stuff, never have never will – but I had to be polite if I wanted a place to sleep and it was pouring with rain. She was high, quite obviously, so I ignored her advances and listened to her rambling story about her family: her possessive and violent father, her own serial addictions to one drug after another; her mother's attempts to get her clean and presentable for one rich man after another and her own horrendous self-destructive urges that made her humiliate herself and the whole family time and again. At first I felt little sympathy for her. You know me, I can be a cold bastard sometimes, Case, and she was obviously telling me a _poor little rich girl_ story. But then there was one thing she said, just one, that changed how I viewed her entirely.

'She told me that when she was sixteen, about twelve years ago, she'd fallen hopelessly in love with her riding instructor – I know, Case, her riding instructor of all people! A fellow named John Pale. Yup. You guessed right, he was a local man, some eight years older than Thea, and very shy.

'He rebuffed her every time she attempted to tell him how she felt but was so amazingly gentle with the horses that she fell further and further in love. She would sneak out of the house to meet him at his family's farm, as if by accident, pretending she'd sprained an ankle or that a snake had bitten her, anything that would give her an excuse to spend time in his family stables or to watch him work. He had other riding students but she began to take up all his time and other students quit in protest. His family were deeply disturbed and uncomfortable but no-one wanted to snub her openly in case Salter-Kress took offence. His temper is legendary, apparently.

'This went on for months, until John Pale quit as her instructor, telling her parents she was perfectly competent and that he had taught her all that he knew. Remember, it was her ambition to become an equine arranger, perhaps to enter for the Olympics which were to take place in England a year or two later. I don't remember the exact story since I hadn't slept much for the last few days, but I do recall that her father became extremely suspicious of the man when he quit and had an investigator interrogate everyone in his family until the real reason for his quitting emerged. Somehow her father managed to infer that something improper had occurred between them, and that it was John's fault. Despite Thea's protests, there was a horrible public drama and the man was shamed in front of the rest of the village.'

Derek had stopped and I was beginning to feel queasy. Were there any lengths to which Salter-Kress would not go?

'I thought John Pale had left the area, because at the beginning of her story Thea told me that there was only one man she'd ever love and that she loved him more than anyone in her whole family.'

'Well? I take it Salter-Kress drove him away?'

'It's much worse.' Derek sighed. 'Thea's father sent another of Thea's suitors to attack John, telling this young man that John had molested Thea. There was a fight. John was defending himself and the silly nob sent by Salter-Kress to beat him up ended up being injured quite seriously. It was all public and John was tried and sent to jail. For thirteen years. It's utterly despicable and impossible to imagine I know. But it happened. In this quiet and seemingly respectable community.'

I sighed. This was so depressing.

'Listening to Thea's story, I felt infuriated. I wanted to sort her life out! Then suddenly it was the middle of the night and all I heard was 'Raid! Raid! Scram!' and we had a whole van load of plainclothes police crawling over the tent, yanking us up by our T shirts. Some of the guys got away, but Thea and I weren't so lucky. What can I say, I'm not as young as I used to be and her story had made me sluggish…. I think you know this bit, because I've told the fam about it, as truthfully as I could. They found enough of something seriously strong rolled up in a scarf to put Thea away for several months. I had no idea if it was hers or not, but I couldn't bear the look of terror on her face. So I said it was mine, that someone had given it to me as a gift. But of course with that amount they wouldn't believe it was for personal use.'

He paused, took a deep, shuddering breath. 'Dealing is an ugly word anywhere in the world. Case, I just couldn't bear to tell you. I could not bear that you might think…'

I was furious, all over again, listening to Derek's apology for his absurdly knightish deed. But more insistent even than my fury, and dulling my appetite for romance and food, was the knowledge that I must now confess to Derek all my actions in the last few days. The money. The lawyer. The visit to his in-laws home. And worse, the razor stab of fury my lies about Derek had unveiled in Salter-Kress's eyes.

Suddenly I was aware how alike we were, Derek and I, jumping to rescue with no thought for the consequences. It was oddly comforting and gave me the strength I needed to begin.

I opened my lips to say his name only to see that having gotten his own story off his chest, Derek had conveniently fallen asleep.

My confession would have to wait.


	24. Time Slows Down

**Time slows down**

Derek slept profoundly, his face hidden by an outflung arm. The light trembled and skittered across the counterpane, cradling him, or so it seemed to me, in a kindly embrace. My Derek. Possibly. Seconds ticked by like minutes, and I could not drag myself away.

--

I bathed and dressed myself as I described in one of my recently purchased outfits. Sat on the edge of the bed, in the silent room, and waited.

At half past six he woke and squinted at me. His eyes were bloodshot. He looked terribly pale with that dark stubble I recognized from our youth. I knew that if I smiled back he might just roll over and go back to sleep. So I kept a sombre face.

The very last rays of an Oxfordshire sunset suffused the space around us with a fairy glow. Rose Lodge seemed trapped in a golden embrace.

He reached for me, but I dodged his outstretched arms.

I was ravenous and if I went near him there would be no food tonight.

Ten minutes later Derek too was ready – shaved and changed, wearing a fresh shirt and a smile that scared me as much as anything he ever did. I tried not to look at his body, at the muscles beneath the shirt, at his perfect hands.

'Where to now? And do I have to pretend to leave without you in case Dragon lady's about?'

'She's not a dragon,' I admonised. 'Just looking out for me…'

'Oh, as strange people do, when you're concerned Spacey, huh? Okay, come on, I'm hungry!'

I decided that since the only decent place I knew to eat was the rather posh establishment that I had dined at the night before, we had better go there. I ordered a taxi from the desk and was pleasantly surprised to see Derek chatting companionably to our landlady.

In the cab, my mind was lurching around in agonised anticipation. How would I tell him my various machinations? How would he react? Should I wait until we'd eaten and then broach the subject of his in-laws and the bond? Surely he must know that I hadn't been sitting in my room since I'd arrived in the country? Would he still spend the night with me after my revelations? Would he want to see me ever again?

But I had no idea what Derek was thinking. He had that strange smile on his face and an arm slung lazily along the backseat. The heat between our shoulders whenever the taxi swayed round a bend was almost too much for me – I was wondering if food might have been a foolish distraction and whether he was feeling the same way.

Derek brushed the back of my neck with his knuckles. I groaned his name... Der_ek_. Only softer than I used to. More intimate. He smirked. It was just like old times...

--

The pub was as busy as it had been the night before; despite this the bartender recognised me from my meal with Henry Claridge. He flicked a look at us and then winked. I heard him telling the waitress about me and my 'two hunks'. I was embarrassed, but not as much as I would have been at fifteen.

Derek slid in beside me as we chose our entrees; when the waiter left he grabbed my hand, started playing with my fingers. 'Case, would you have had me if I'd asked you out when we worked at Smelly Nellie's? I always thought you quite liked me in that brown T-Shirt.' No smirk this time. My mouth was dry.

'Are you kidding? You had eyes for no-one but Sally in those days! I worked there too, remember? Don't try to construct a past we never had.' Oh yes, the cutting Casey of old.

He was silent. I withdrew my hand. We both felt awkward. Then he grabbed my hand again, brought it to his lips. 'You're a bloody idiot, Casey, always were and always will be.'

'And you say this with total authority in your voice because…?' Oh, how I loved him!

'Because if you'd so much as looked at me then Miss High and Mighty, I'd have taken you into the kitchen, bolted the door and – ' I cut him off. I needed to hear this but I just couldn't. Not with dastardly Salter-Kress and divorce and a quarter of a million dollars hanging over our heads, not with Callum's future beating in my veins.

'Derek…'

'What?'

'I paid off your bond.'

'YOU DID WHAT?'

'Shhhh…' I felt panic riding me as several other diners gave us disapproving looks. I was certain they thought us American. Normally I would have looked back with my own irritation unconcealed.

'And I visited your father-in-law. He's going to make Theodora divorce you….'

'He WHAT?' Derek sounded strangely vague, almost as if my revelations had thrown him into a state of shock.

A grey-haired waiter with a bow tie delivered our first course.

'And there's more… I think I might accidentally have led him to believe that you are cheating on his daughter. I think I might have implied that you are using her wealth for personal gain… and… and… treating her poorly at the same time.'

'You _think_ you _might_ have _accidentally_…?' Derek's voice was low and grave, despite the sarcasm.

'I… I think I might have deliberately done that.' I was desperate.

Derek had his hand over his eyes, so I couldn't see him properly. We were side by side and I wished now that I'd insisted on sitting opposite him. You are probably thinking that I had just spent my life savings on him, surely he'd be grateful? But I knew Derek. He'd view it as a burden, an awful unpayable debt. At least I thought he would.

Our entrees sat uneaten on the table, prawns and mayonnaise and wilted lettuce, hiding from Derek's wrath.

My stomach twisted and rolled. I knew I needed to give him a more detailed explanation. But before I could say anything more he'd moved his hand and I saw that he was grinning again. How odd. How very uncanny. In fact he was laughing. Laughing at me?

'You total _Nut Case_! Why on earth did you do that? Oh, but it must have been a filthy shock to that old bastard! I'm so incredibly proud of you! Tell gruesome details…' He reached out and started stuffing food into his mouth. What on earth!

What had I done? Had I pushed him over the edge? Was this some sort of nervous breakdown?

But Derek soon convinced me to follow his lead and eat.

Relief and joy made me giddy. The rest of the meal was spent in gusts of uncontrollable laughter as I recounted my evening at the Salter-Kress mansion. 'She said _what_? You did _what?_', 'That's frigging awesome, Casey!' was all I heard from Derek as he spooned dish after dish into his mouth. It was almost as if we were in a cocoon, a perfect bubble where nothing either of us had done could possibly have any consequences. I forgot that I was Dr MacDonald. That he was a teacher of mathematics with an eleven year old son. That I had ever hated him or cried hysterical tears or wanted to disappear from my own life. That we were in a foreign country in the midst of a legal battle that might get very nasty.

--

You guys are probably thinking this the least romantic first date ever. It was certainly the most complicated. There were no kisses, and barely any touching. He never commented on my outfit, or nuzzled my ear, or whispered sweet nothings to me. The closest I came to being complimented was in the attention he paid to my hilarious description of the Salter-Kress cousin. But to me his laughter was the craziest, most delicious seasoning food could ever have. I was heady with excitement. Drunk on Derek's love.

Chewing open-mouthed, holding my food with shaking fingers, manners forgotten, I stared at him with total adoration.

The kind of forgiveness he gave me that night – even I had not dared to hope for. He did what I had done for him – took the consequences of my actions upon himself as if they belonged to us both. And he didn't for one second say I had done anything wrong.

It was like the day I saw Truman kissing my cousin and Derek simply enveloped me with his teasing affection and swept me away. It was like the day the manager fired me and he quit with panache; and like the day I wrote him a song for my rival and sang it for him in public with no malice at all. It was like so many, many days in our youth when he'd had my back and I'd had his.

--

After a few glasses of wine we telephoned Callum on Derek's cell and our absurd three-way conversation about pet pigs and ranting mothers rang out across the now noisy pub.

I heard people muttering. But who cared?

I was about to go to the bathroom. I asked Derek to move and shoved him in the side but he stayed put. Then I felt his arm go around me and tighten till I almost couldn't breathe, pulling my face against his neck. He hissed some words that made me sick: 'Guess who's just joined us for dinner. Stay where you are, Case, and don't move your face. Maybe he won't see us.'

**Dan dhan dhan! Review?**


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